


ways of spreading light

by asmenuke



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: F/M, Grim Eastern European Humor, M/M, Slow Burn, eventual OT3, gleb-centric, lots of period-typical morbid jokes, or something to that effect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2018-12-15 04:57:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 50,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11798865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asmenuke/pseuds/asmenuke
Summary: Gleb Vaganov fails to kill the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova, and in doing so, effectively condemns himself to a lifetime outside of Russia. Luckily, said Grand Duchess is forgiving, and as it so happens, she's also thinking of running away. Granted, she's running away with Dmitry, but Gleb will... take what he can get.And they go from there.(An AU in which Gleb doesn't go back to Russia at the end of the musical and instead gets to stay in France.)





	1. La Vie En Rosé

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends I saw Anastasia on b'way on Tuesday and I have been living in Russian History Hell ever since!
> 
> that said, 3/4 years of my undergraduate education were spent on The Cold War from all angles and I have far too many family history stories about the KGB, so naturally seeing Gleb on stage back in Leningrad at the end my reaction was "they'd have shot him for not coming back with Anya" and it's only now that I'm about to post this that I'm realizing he could just fake her death and go but I've gone this far and I'm not turning back now and also Gleb Vaganov deserves happiness too, so there.

_There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle, or the mirror that reflects it. -Edith Wharton_

 

* * *

 

“I am not my father’s son.”

The white and black marble tiles swam in front of Gleb’s face. It was… over. Months on end, autumn turning to winter turning to spring, a train across Europe; all for this moment.

This was it, and Anya was gone.

“Gleb…”

A hand found its way into his hair. Gleb fought the urge to lean into it. It became significantly easier to resist when Anya— _Anastasia's_ red skirts drifted across the tiles into his line of vision.

“You’re shaking,” she said, her voice quiet and gentle. The reminder of their meetings back in Leningrad drew a hoarse laugh from his throat. He could almost feel the coarse fibers of her coat and smell the lemon tea.

“The Grand Duchesses had straight backs when the gates closed,” Gleb muttered, more to himself than to Anya, “I can only hope to meet my fate with half as much dignity.”

He could tell that Anya was gathering her words. He remembered the look on her pretty face as she sat in front of his desk, preparing a defense. The route home to Leningrad stretched out across the marble tiles; bleak and grey in his mind’s eye.

“They’ll shoot me,” he said, breaking the silence. The general had three pistols within reach at all times—in his desk, in his overcoat, and in his waistcoat. He’d most likely be shot by the one within the general’s waistcoat, unless he was shot upon crossing the border again. Only killing the Grand Duchess Anastasia would allow him to return home, and there was no way to do that  _now._

“Because you failed,” Anya said, her voice still damnably soft and gentle. Gleb couldn’t look at her, instead focusing on the rubies sewn into her skirts. Silk smoothed over his hair, and he swallowed hard.

“I should have known I couldn’t do it,” he said to Anya’s red shoes, “I’m sure they knew.”

Russia was home. The Revolution was home. He was born in October, for Heaven’s sake! But when Russia and the Revolution were betrayed, Gleb knew better than most what followed. He sat up, taking a breath before meeting the bright blue eyes of the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolayevna Romanova.

“Well,” Gleb began, “It was an honor. Anastasia Nikolayevna. Long life, comrade.”

He stood, brushing imaginary dust off the knees of his trousers. Of course the Dowager Empress would have spotless floors. He offered Anya his hand. Anya stared, her large blue eyes as stunned as the day he first met her.

“You’re going back?” She breathed, taking his hand and shaking it once before stilling.

“Where else can I go?” Gleb replied, offering a small shrug, “I… What if I don’t? I don’t know what I will do. I could fake your death, but I would need convincing proof. Bloodstains, preferably. Maybe wait here until they come to Paris and kill me. They haven’t gotten to Trotsky yet. Admittedly, Mexico City is farther away than Paris, but I might still have time.”

“Must you be morbid, Gleb?” Anya huffed, before her gaze dropped down to where Gleb’s own pistol was tucked away in his suit pocket. She was silent for a beat before she laughed, appearing to see the dark humor in the situation. She was still holding his hand.

“You should be very careful, Anya,” Gleb said after a long moment, “You… I don’t know how safe you will be, now that I’ve failed to…”

“To finish the job,” Anya finished his sentence for him, somehow knowing he would not be able to. She smiled, clearly trying to tease.

“Don’t think of it as a failure. Think of it as… succeeding in disobeying orders for once, Deputy Commissioner Vaganov!”

Gleb forced a smile in return. _Only an Imperial Princess would have the strength to tease her would-be assassin mere minutes after trying to taunt him into killing her._

“Yes,” he said after a pause, “But there will be men like me, ready to shoot into a crowd. Men who have stronger morals than I do.”

“Weaker morals, I should think,” Anya corrected, a thoughtful look crossing her face, “Then I guess it’s a good thing I won’t be the Grand Duchess for much longer, isn’t it?”

Gleb forced himself to let go of her hand, feeling the silk of her gloves slip through his rough fingers.

“What do you mean?”

“Anastasia Nikolayevna can’t marry a commoner. Anya can,” she explained, her mouth blooming into a smile. Gleb felt his heart sink. A small, vocal part of his brain immediately quipped, _Oh, she’ll be getting married. May as well take your chance on the Seine instead of waiting for the Neva._

“…Congratulations,” Gleb replied, hoping he didn’t sound as strangled as he felt.

“Dmitry doesn’t know yet,” Anya confessed as though imparting a vital state secret. Her smile was no parts Grand Duchess and all parts giddy schoolgirl.

“Dmitry. The con man? Who worked with Popov?” Gleb asked, dread soaking in with the realization that there was a very real chance that he had deluded himself into thinking he had a chance with Anya to begin with.

“Yes. I… I have to tell him, before he leaves, I—“ She suddenly looked frantic, and Gleb took a step back.

“Then this is goodbye, Anya,” he said gently, “I’ll… allow me.”

He moved to the center set of doors, hand steady, and unlocked them.

“Long life, comrade,” he repeated, taking her in. If he was going to die back in Leningrad or here in Paris, this would serve as a last sight—Anastasia Romanova, beautiful and eternal and…

And taking three long steps forward to grab Gleb’s arm.

“Come with me,” Anya breathed, her blue eyes gleaming as brightly as the jewels in her dress, “Gleb. Come with both of us. We’re leaving Paris, or at least we will if I can convince Dima.”

“You… _He_ won’t want me there; I’m sure he won’t,” Gleb stammered, “He knows who I am and what I’ve done.”

“You said it yourself,” Anya argued, “There will be people searching for me, no matter what Nana says. Cheka officers, like you. Who better to keep us safe?”

“Who better to plant a target on your back?” Gleb retorted, feeling her grip on his arm tighten. The silk gloves that felt so slippery in his hair barely budged on the fabric of his suit.

“You wouldn't have let me go, Gleb Vaganov,” Anya said sternly, “Now hurry up. Turnabout is fair play."

“I can’t just—“ Gleb began, just barely catching himself before he stumbled. For a woman who was at most five-foot-four, Anya’s pace was brutal. 

“Do you have any money? Any kind of a plan?” He tried.

“ _You_ certainly don’t,” Anya replied, shooting him a piercing look.

She was right. The future, terrifying and open as it was, could at least wait a few hours.

 

* * *

 

It was not difficult for Anya to convince Dmitry to go with her. Gleb watched them meet from further down the Alexander Bridge as they argued, Anya wearing his suit jacket in a paltry attempt to disguise the fantastical red dress. Her tiara was held in his lap as he attempted to look like he was reading a French newspaper with one hand. 

“If you ever see me from a carriage again, don’t wave, don’t smile. I don’t want to be in love with someone I can’t have for the rest of my life,” Dmitry had said, and Gleb, peering out from behind his newspaper, could empathize. 

Until she kissed him. 

“I always imagined my first kiss would be in Paris with a handsome prince.”

“I’m not your prince, Anya,” Dmitry scoffed, and Gleb thought briefly, _well, in this, at least, he and I are equal._  

“The Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov would disagree, Dima,” Anya retorted with a bright grin, and in a heartbeat she was stepping on his suitcase to kiss him.

Her first kiss.

Forget the Seine. At this rate, Gleb Vaganov was going to die after being eaten alive by his own jealousy. It took him a long moment to tune back into Anya and Dmitry’s conversation as he tried to calm the blood rushing in his ears.

“Nana told me you gave up the reward money. That you and Vlad—“

“Vlad is content with being Lilli’s second husband. Or fake husband,” Dmitry interrupted with a laugh, “He doesn’t need the money.”

“And you?” Anya interrupted with a happy, teasing note in her voice, “Couldn’t you use it?”

She brushed her hand over his threadbare vest, positively beaming at Dmitry.

“It felt dishonest,” he confessed, “I mean, it’s rich for me to say that when this whole thing started out as an extremely dishonest way to make money, but… I couldn’t take money for making the woman I loved happy. For giving you back your family. I couldn’t be paid for that.”

“And what were you going to do?” Anya asked softly, “With the money, I mean?”

“I hadn’t gotten that far, aside from maybe setting myself up with an apartment in Paris,” Dmitry replied. “Without that… In all honesty, Anya, I was going to go to the train station and buy the first ticket out of Paris. Not much of a plan.”

Gleb peered around the newspaper. Dmitry had a soft smile on his face, and held Anya’s hand in one of his own. Chagrined, Gleb ducked back behind the newspaper. 

“Were you going to stay in France?” Anya asked. There was a soft, hollow noise as she stepped down from the suitcase to the cobblestones.

“Well, at least for a little while,” Dmitry mused, “Maybe a suburb of Paris, even. I speak French, after all. I wasn’t planning on going back to Petersburg, and I didn’t have a plan.”

 _That makes three of us,_ Gleb thought.

“That makes three of us,” Anya said, echoing his thoughts so precisely that he crinkled the newspaper by accident. Anya’s crown nearly slipped from his lap, and Gleb grimaced, rustling the newspaper even more as he tried to keep the jewel-encrusted piece from falling onto the street.

“Gleb!” Anya called, and Gleb took a deep breath.

“Gleb?” Dmitry echoed, confused, before Gleb folded down his newspaper and revealed his face. 

“ _Gleb!_ ” Dmitry yelped, “Whoa, okay, I was not expecting—Anya, that’s Gleb Vaganov! He’s a Chekist; rumor has it that his father—“

“Killed my family. Yes, I know he did; that’s one rumor in St. Petersburg that was true,” Anya said calmly, before Dmitry pushed her behind him. “Hey!”

“I don’t know what you’re here for, Vaganov, but if you want to hurt Anya you’ll—“

“I don’t.”

“—have to go through me… what?” Dmitri gaped. Anya took the opportunity to duck under his arm, and Gleb took a moment to gather his thoughts. He showed off Anya’s glittering crown before carefully beginning to wrap it up in his newspaper.

“They sent me here to kill her,” Gleb said, looking up from his wrapping to meet Dmitry’s dark eyes, “And when I found my opportunity, I couldn’t do it. I don’t want to hurt Anya.”

Dmitry stared. Gleb couldn’t blame him. Put that way, it seemed pretty unbelievable. 

“So… you’re…”

“Hopefully staying on with you two as a security detail, as I’m sure I’ll be shot on sight, or worse, should I return to Leningrad,” Gleb said in a carefully measured tone.

“Anya, do you believe this?” Dmitry asked, sounding slightly faint. Anya opened Gleb’s suit jacket that she still wore, gesturing to the bulky pocket. 

“Yes, of course,” she said mildly, “Because now his pistol is in my pocket.”

Dmitry had the look of a man who had recently been told that a vital constant, like gravity, was actually completely made up and he was, in fact, the last to find out about such a thing. In a sense, Gleb considered, he had: Anya was Anastasia was Anya and he, Gleb Vaganov, was attempting to tag along on their new lives.  

“Well, it’s true,” he finally said, wondering if there was a medal the USSR could award him for keeping his cool throughout this entire situation, “Anya needed some insurance that I wouldn’t steal her crown.”

“Unbelievable,” Dmitry muttered, “Absolutely unbelievable.” He took a deep breath, pushing a lock of hair behind his ear.  

“Okay, so,” Dmitry continued, “We’ve established that Vaganov is _probably_ not going to kill us both—“

Gleb felt mildly insulted by this, and judging by Anya’s muffled snort, his look of affront was not well-concealed.

“—And none of us, not even _Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov_ , has a plan.”

“I just wanted to find you, Dima,” Anya said sweetly, though not without some measure of embarrassment at her own eagerness. Dmitry softened, taking her hand with a small smile. They gazed into each other’s eyes for a long moment.

“I was just following Anya,” Gleb added before either could lapse into any more romantic behavior right in front of him. Dmitry looked rather irked at being drawn away from Anya’s smile. 

“Well, first order of business is for you to get changed,” Dmitry grumbled, “So I suppose it’s back to the hotel with you, Anya.”

Anya stared down at her dress ruefully. “What, Gleb’s jacket doesn’t distract from the rubies and gold thread?”

“I imagine it merely confuses the passerby,” Gleb quipped, tucking the matching crown under his arm, “And if those are real rubies, we had better get you back before someone recognizes you and tries to steal you away, dress and all.” 

“Don’t joke,” Anya huffed.

“Don’t _flirt,_ ” Dmitry warned, offering Anya his arm. She blushed and took it.

Gleb grimaced. 

“We’ll reconvene at the _brasserie_ across from the hotel in two hours,” he directed, not wanting to think too much about the blossoming romance across from him, “Anya, you can return my jacket _and_ the contents of its pockets then. I’m sure you two have much to discuss. Dmitry…”

The simple name felt awkward in his mouth. There were very few people back in Russia that Gleb did not address with _comrade_ , their rank, or their name and patronymic.

“I’m not giving you my father’s name to use,” Dmitry said coolly, “We’re in France now.”

“Take this back to Anya, then,” Gleb replied, trying not to show how off-balance this development had him, and thrust the paper-wrapped tiara at Dmitry before setting off down the street.

“You can’t just order us around like we’re your underlings, Vaganov!” Dmitry yelled after him.

Gleb kept walking. _I’m not fleeing,_ he thought, _this is a tactical retreat._

 

* * *

 

 _The best thing about Paris,_ Gleb thought, _was the waitstaff._ Unflinching and unquestioning, the tall, dark-skinned server at the brasserie did not even ask when Gleb changed his order of a cappuccino to a cappuccino with brandy and then finally, to a bottle of wine. He didn’t comment each time Gleb flinched when he saw a blond girl on the arm of a dark-haired man and trailed off.

“Would Monsieur like to see our wine list?” The man asked, a small, leather-backed card tucked under his arm. 

“No, thank you,” Gleb replied, trying to place the other man’s accent. He shook off the absent thought, turning his attention back to him. “Please just get me a glass of whatever will suit a day like this.”

There. An answer that very politely said that Gleb Vaganov knew little about wine, but acknowledging that when in France, one did as the French did; and besides, two o’clock was a bit too early to publicly indulge in a shot or five of vodka. 

“Of course,” replied the server, looking amused, “May I ask if this is your first time in Paris?”

“Is it that obvious, comrade?” Gleb asked ruefully.

“I felt the same when I arrived from Algiers,” the young man answered with a smile, “In any case, you’ll be wanting a dry, crisp white. I’ll have it for you in a moment.”

“Merci,” Gleb replied, amused in spite of himself. At least there were as many Russians in Paris as there were French Algerians. One chance meeting wouldn’t give him away. When the waiter arrived with the glass of wine a few minutes later, he paused.

“Do you think you will be staying long in Paris, monsieur?” He asked delicately. Gleb stared at his wine glass pensively.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted.

“This is a Chablis from Burgundy,” the waiter explained immediately, “If you’ll be staying long in France, you’ll be learning a great deal about wines.”

Gleb thought of vodka longingly but nodded, taking a sip of the Chablis. His eyes widened, the taste far better than he expected.

“I would appreciate if you put a bottle of this on to chill,” he admitted, “I’ll be meeting some friends here in a couple hours.”

The waiter smiled.

“Ask for Pierre,” he offered, “They will find me. When do you suppose your friends will arrive?”

Gleb grimaced, immediately thought of his mother warning him that if he frowned far too much his face would stay that way, and smoothed his expression out into blankness.

“Possibly in two hours,” he offered, “But one never knows. They could leave Paris without me and then I’ll be out of luck.”

Anya still had his pistol. He might have to drown himself after all.

“Not very good friends,” Pierre observed.

“When you’re Russian, you take what you can get,” Gleb sighed, taking another sip of his wine. “This—I don’t know much about wine, but this, what, Chablis? Sha-blee? It’s excellent.”

“Well, this is France,” Pierre demurred, but folded his tray under his arm, his dark eyes alight with curiosity. “May I ask—you have only just gotten here, Monsieur. Are you and your friends going back to Russia?”

“I doubt it,” Gleb sighed, his tone as tired and bored as though he was speaking about the weather. “All of us speak decent French, and as long as we leave Paris, my comrades in the Cheka—in the secret police won’t be able to track us down and shoot us.”

Pierre flinched. Gleb was suddenly reminded that Gallic humor was not nearly as grim as Eastern European humor tended to run. Hopefully Pierre thought he was just joking about the Cheka.

“That’s a good enough reason as any,” Pierre managed after a pause. 

 _Probably doesn't think I'm joking_ , Gleb thought,  _Alright, mark that down, the French don't think execution by firing squad is funny. Maybe a guillotine joke would go over better._

 “Any recommendations?” Gleb asked sardonically, “Not about the wine, about other parts of France.”

 He opened his notebook and reached for the pen in the pocket of his waistcoat. The ink he had purchased for the fountain pen in Paris was delightfully black and barely bled through the pages of his notebook. Before he had decided against shooting Anya, he had considered bringing it back to Leningrad as a secret stash for himself and Polya, his secretary. 

“Well, Jean-Paul is from Lyon, Marcel is from Orléans, and Sophie is from Reims,” Pierre began, “I lived in Nice before I came here to Paris. You know… give me one moment, Monsieur, and I will see if they can come here and talk to you.”

Gleb took a sip of wine and smiled.

“That would be _wonderful,_ ” he stressed, and sat back to relax and watch the Seine.  

Two hours later, Gleb had polished off the majority of a bottle of wine as well as two freshly made if slightly burnt croissants, free of charge, and had forgotten entirely about keeping on the look out for blonde girls with dark haired men. So what if Anya and Dmitry didn’t show? Jean-Paul’s brother was a Communist in the assembly in Lyon, and Marcel's cousin needed a roommate in Orléans, and Sophie's aunt in Reims ran a flower shop and even rented out the tiny apartment over the shop when she could. Apparently, staff were allowed just as much downtime in a French cafe as a Russian one, because Sophie, Jean-Paul, Pierre, and Marcel were all lounging and drinking their own cups of _café au lait_ when a petite blonde woman nearly walked right by them on the arm of a dark-haired man.

“…Gleb?” Anya asked, and the man in question lifted his head along with the rest of the Parisians clustered around him. 

“Oh! Your friends!” Pierre beamed, “They didn't leave Paris without you!”

“It was a near thing,” Dmitry muttered, before peering at Gleb more closely, “Is he… drunk?”

Gleb’s expression froze into a polite smile. Anya took an automatic step back on the sidewalk, letting go of Dmitry. Pierre, Sophie, Jean-Paul and Marcel leaned away, all picking up their coffee cups; seemingly one breath from springing up and away like rabbits.

“I’m not drunk,” Gleb snapped in Russian, “And just for that, Anya is the only one who gets to share the wine with me.”

“Doesn’t _a good and loyal Russian_ prefer vodka?” Dmitry taunted.

 _She told him._ Gleb’s eyes snapped to Anya, who went even more pale and barely seemed to breathe. She held his jacket tucked under her other arm, pistol most likely there, and yet the look on her face suggested Gleb did not need it to be dangerous.

For the first time in his life, Gleb regretted the careful crafting of that particular reputation.

“…A good and loyal Russian does not get drunk during the day,” Gleb grit out. The silence stretched between them, and Gleb stood, forcing himself to plaster on a faint smile.

“Thank you for the advice, comrades,” he addressed the staff in French, “Your suggestions were quite good. I will be discussing them with my friends, and if I need to call anyone, I will inform you all first.”

“I’ll get you some macarons,” Sophie offered immediately as Jean-Paul and Marcel scattered, “On the house. Please, sit down. Pierre will pour the wine.”

Anya sat, looking much like she had hours earlier after quite literally dodging Gleb’s bullets. Dmitry sat next to her, immediately covering one hand with his own.

“Would Madame like me to take her jacket?” Pierre asked, gesturing to the bundle of grey fabric in her lap.  

“Oh,” Anya breathed, “Gleb, this is yours. Careful, the pistol—“

Pierre's eyes went wide as Gleb steadied the gun from falling out of the interior pocket and onto the table.

“ _Merci_ ,” he said to both Pierre and Anya, hanging the jacket over the back of his own chair and sliding the new glass of wine to Anya.

“They weren’t afraid of you,” she said softly as Pierre beat a hasty retreat, “I mean, when he saw your gun, he was, but… were you talking the whole time?” 

“Members of the Proletariat share a bond across the borders of nations,” Gleb chuckled softly.

“Members of the Proletariat _always_ like Marx better when they don’t have to live under his rules,” Dmitry cut in, glaring at Gleb.

“We were working to make Russia better,” Gleb growled, “Change doesn’t happen overnight, and there were ways to—“

“ _Boys!_ " Anya hissed. The wine glasses trembled. Anya looked at the glassware before finally sighing and taking the glass Pierre had poured before his retreat. She took a long sip, regal as ever, before staring at her glass in amazement.

“Gleb, I didn’t know you knew wine,” she muttered.

“Thank you, Anya, you’re kind to say so,” Gleb demurred, thanking any and every deity present that she’d said it in Russian. Pierre’s laugh from inside the café seemed to say he understood anyways and at least would graciously allow Gleb to take credit for this one.

“Well, we were cornered by the Dowager and the Countess,” Dmitry admitted, his tone more of a grumble than anything as Anya took another sip of wine, “And consequently didn’t get to do any work of our own. Do you have any ideas, or were you here just gossiping with the French?”

Gleb took a deep breath and opened his notebook.

“So far, I have the most information on Reims,” he began, “Three and a half to four hours by train, and they’re still doing a great deal of rebuilding as much of the city was damaged during the Great War. It’s a good place to disappear. Sophie mentioned her aunt owns a flower shop, and is always looking for good, reliable staff. I don’t know if you plan on working, Anya, but it’s a step up from a street-sweeper. Apartments are difficult to get into, as many are still being constructed, but there are some houses on the edge of the city that aren’t a terrible commute and they were not as damaged.”

 Sophie swept by as Gleb turned the page of his notebook and deposited a plate of colorful macarons on the table. Gleb, heartened by the gift of macarons and still warm from the wine, reached out and tucked his fingers under her chin, a move familiar from his days as the Deputy Commissioner.

“ _Spasibo_.”

Sophie giggled and hurried off, and Gleb grabbed a pale green macaron he suspected was pistachio, taking a bite. Dmitry was frozen, gaping at Gleb. Anya’s glass was frozen halfway to her mouth.

“I can see at least two lemon macarons,” he said mildly, “Those are yours, Anya.”

“Oh, lovely,” Anya managed, and took another less refined sip of wine. 

“I, of course, need to make a few calls,” Gleb continued, “I can transfer the rest of my savings to a bank outside of Russia, but that means I’m officially defecting unless Polina can throw them off, but that also means I need to convince Polina to help me. I can also fake my own death, but that means giving up my savings, and God knows how much of it would go to Polya rather than the State.” 

“Nana said she would help Dima and I with whatever we needed,” Anya offered, “But I didn’t tell her about you.”

“Probably should have,” Dmitry muttered, but leaned in towards Gleb, raising an eyebrow. “Who’s Polya?”

“None of your business,” Gleb said, taking what might be a raspberry macaron before pushing the plate charitably to Dmitry. 

“He’ll tell us eventually, Dima,” Anya said, confident and self-assured, tossing a shy smile at Gleb before grabbing a lemon macaron, “How far is Reims from Paris? I promised Nana I’d visit as often as I can.”

“Just one hundred fifty kilometers,” Gleb replied proudly.

Dmitry took a sip of his own wine, looking just as pleased by the taste.

“Then I guess our plan is Reims,” he declared, “And we’ll go from there.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends I saw Anastasia on b'way on Tuesday and I have been living in Russian History Hell ever since!
> 
> that said, 3/4 years of my undergraduate education were spent on The Cold War from all angles and I have far too many family history stories about the KGB, so naturally seeing Gleb on stage back in Leningrad at the end my reaction was "they'd have shot him for not coming back with Anya" and it's only now that I'm about to post this that I'm realizing he could just fake her death and go but I've gone this far and I'm not turning back now and also Gleb Vaganov deserves happiness too, so there.
> 
> in any case, this will hopefully be updating relatively quickly, and I do hope you enjoyed! feel free to visit me on Tumblr and scream into my ask box about Anastasia, the Cold War, or your day.


	2. Champagne-Ardennes and Les Fleurs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gleb talks to Polya, has breakfast with Dmitry, and gets steamrolled by two lovely older ladies in Reims.

When the second bottle of chablis was finished and the macarons had been reduced to a pile of colorful crumbs littering the ceramic dish, Anya, Gleb, and Dmitry decided to call it an evening. 

“I’m sorry,” Anya said after she yawned for the second time, “It’s just been a long day. 

Dmitry placed a gentle hand on the small of her back. “You started the day as an Imperial Princess, dodged a press conference, dodged a _bullet,_ and now you’re back to being a commoner,” he said, “I’d say it’s been a long day!”

“A commoner, but never a street sweeper again,” Gleb added gently, counting out his francs and leaving a generous tip for the staff to split.

“Who knows what will happen when we get to Reims,” Anya laughed, “You never know. They might need a very experienced street sweeper.”

“Vaganov, are you coming back with us?” Dmitry asked, raising an eyebrow. Clearly, Gleb booking a room at the same hotel as himself, Vlad, and Anya was a suspicious coincidence. Gleb didn’t have the heart to inform him that it was no coincidence, and he supposed that if Dmitry had a little less wine, he would have realized that it was only natural for a Cheka officer to make that particular booking.

“I think I’ll take a walk down the Seine, and maybe get a _crêpe_ for dinner if I feel the need,” Gleb admit, “You’ll be able to find me at breakfast tomorrow.”

“Then goodnight, comrade,” Anya said, grabbing his hand and squeezing it as she smiled. Her bare hand was warm against his palm. Dmitry draped his jacket over her shoulders, and after a diplomatic nod at Gleb, led her out from under the awnings of the brasserie. She looked back over her shoulder and waved.

Gleb, feeling like a schoolboy, couldn’t resist waving back.

Once Anya and Dmitry disappeared into the crowds of Parisians wandering down the street, he tucked his notepad into his coat pocket and began to walk as well. Notre Dame was illuminated far in the distance, just before a curve in the Seine. Gleb decided on a whim to walk to it—not for any great spiritual purpose, but to admire what was admittedly one of Paris’ most important monuments.

Even before religion was deemed the opiate of the masses, Gleb had never been a particularly religious child. At twenty, the shift against the Church had not concerned him overmuch, as his only prayers from 1916 onwards were to the tune of, _Please God, let me survive tonight’s shelling._

He still fondly remembered sitting in the drafty pews of Yekaterinburg’s orthodox church as a child, making faces at Polya and passing notes in a Bible that had seen better days.

 _Polya_. 

Oh, Polya was going to _kill_ him.

Polina Arkadievna Varankina, a year younger and twice as smart as Gleb Sergeyevich Vaganov, had the honor and distinction of being Deputy Commissioner Vaganov’s right hand woman as well as his oldest friend. They were right next to each other on roll call in primary and secondary school, lived next to each other on the same street in Yekaterinburg, and shared the bedroom of a tiny apartment in Leningrad. 

Once, Gleb thought he’d marry her. There were worse fates than building a life together with one’s best friend.

But Polya had turned down his impulsive proposal in 1916, and Gleb had gone off to war at the tender age of 17, and by the time he returned to Yekaterinburg, he had learned there were better fates than marrying a woman you thought of and cherished as a sister.

 _Anya would have been a better fate,_ Gleb thought, but shook the useless and hopeless thought off as soon as it entered his mind. Anya held no place in this conversation, aside from technically being the reason he would have to have it. 

Gleb took a deep breath and leaned against the sidewalk’s wall, watching the blossoms fall into the Seine and drift down the river. Would he ever see Polya again, if he defected? Would stubborn Polya even help? Or would practical, clever Polya see him as too much of a risk, and figuratively turn away?

In the late-day sunlight, Notre Dame gleamed. In Leningrad, the sun would have already set, and Polina would have gone home to the apartment she and Gleb shared with five other citizens of Leningrad. They had still needed heat when Gleb left. At least their building _had_ heat.

Well, Gleb supposed, he’d find out the answers to all those questions in the morning.

 

* * *

 

“Are. You. Out. Of. Your. _Damn._ Mind,” Polina Arkadievna Varankina growled, the flat-out menace in her tone enough to send a shiver down Gleb’s spine, despite the fact that she was several thousand kilometers away and could not _actually_ reach through the phone and strangle him herself.

“Polya—“

“Don’t _Polya_ me, Gleb Sergeyevich!” Polina hissed, “I could just, just _murder_ you for what you’re asking me to do, Gleb! You’re lucky this is a secure line! How can you ask this of me? How can you—how can you _not come home_? You are a _good_ and _loyal Russian!_ Good and loyal Russians _come home!_ ”

 _A good and loyal Russian._ The words were determined to haunt him. Gleb closed his eyes. Around him, hotel staff bustled and let him attend to his call in peace. The rest of the hotel hadn’t quite woken up yet, and in Leningrad, at least half of their building would still have been drunk from the night prior and sleeping on their desks. 

“… _Polya_ ,” he began, unsure of how to finish. Daylight was creeping across the floor, and in the light it was glaringly obvious he hadn’t thought this through, carried on the momentum of Anya’s forgiveness and Dmitry’s mulishness and Pierre’s wine and Sophie’s advice and all of his own plotting. This was no vacation. There was a very clear possibility he would never see Russia again.

“You _idiot,_ ” Polina replied, hearing the waver in his tone. He could just imagine her red hair gleaming in the dim light of the telephone booth, the tiny pair of spectacles perched on her nose. He imagined her smile. All of his photos of the two of them, of his _family,_ were in their apartment in Leningrad, save one portrait of his parents he’d forgotten was in his suitcase—hidden from his mother after they’d moved to Leningrad.

“You didn’t think this through at all, did you, Glebka?” She huffed.

“I didn’t think this through all the way,” Gleb replied, the use of his childish nickname an indication of both Polina’s fondness for him and her irritation about how stupid she thought he was being.

“Are you certain? That they’ll kill you?” Polina questioned once more, a slight inhalation making it clear to Gleb that his best friend was biting her lip. 

“I’m not returning with any proof that I killed the Grand Duchess Anastasia,” Gleb pointed out, “You know how they love proof. The General doesn’t exactly have a fondness for me. I get the impression this was meant to be a death sentence all along, Polyushka.”

Polina sighed, the exhalation crackling over the phone line.

“You’re an idiot,” she finally said, “You’re an idiot, but you’re the other half of my soul, and your mother took me in as her own, and your father was a good man who didn’t deserve to die the way he did, and if I let you die I think… I couldn’t live with myself if I turned my back on you. Tell me your plan.”

Gleb did, bracing himself for Polina’s anger at the mention of Anya, but she simply hummed as he described the rough plan they had concocted the night before.

“So your Anya is going to stay with her grandmother, the fucking _Dowager Empress of Russia_ , while you and Dmitry Petrovich—“ Gleb didn’t ask how Polina knew Dmitry’s patronymic and frankly, didn’t want to know, “—go to Reims and do a bit of house hunting with _dear Nana’s_ money, and hopefully get jobs while you’re there. Your money, aside from that nice bit I’m keeping for myself, will be in a Swiss bank, and later a French bank, and you will have a nice—well, _decent_ cushion to live on while you yourself find a job. Remember the exchange rate, Glebka.”

“I remember, Polya,” Gleb chuckled.

“And you’ll all be living together?” Polina asked, “Until Anya Nikolayevna and Dmitry Petrovich marry and find somewhere else to live and raise a bunch of deposed royal brats?”

“Well, it’ll be cheaper, won’t it?” Gleb reasoned. Polina paused, taking a deep breath.

“Glebka,” she said quietly, “You’re going to break your own heart.”

Uncomfortable, Gleb joked, “You mean what was left of it after you cruelly rejected me ten years ago?”

“Don’t try to be funny, it doesn’t suit you,” Polina snapped, before gentling her tone, “You’re going to live with this girl, who I know you’ve pined after for an entire autumn and winter, and watch her fall deeper in love with another man? You’re going to watch her _marry_ him?”

“Isn’t that how it usually goes in all of our great novels?” Gleb quipped, ignoring the fact that Polina was entirely right, “The man devoted to his duty misses out, and the girl he was in love with finds someone to love her back.”

“This is your _life_ , Gleb, not a Tolstoy novel!” Polina snapped, her tone once again wintry and frightening, “Christ, this is why I didn’t marry you! I’d be telling you how stupid you were for the rest of our lives.”

“You’re going to do that anyways, Polya,” Gleb said, suddenly feeling a warm, blooming tenderness for her in his chest. 

“I _will_ ," she growled, “And I _will_ see you again, Gleb Sergeyevich. I’m going to make sure of it. But until then, I promise I’ll make sure you’re safe in France. Even if I can’t stop you from dropping your heart from a third-floor window and watching it shatter.”

In the hotel in Paris, Gleb smiled indulgently. One of the maids whispered something in French that sounded very much like, “… _au téléphone avec sa femme.”_ The implication only widened his smile. 

“I do love you, Polina Arkadievna,” Gleb said sweetly.

“I hate you for making me do this,” Polina replied. After a pause, she continued, “And I love you too. You know I do. Be safe, Glebka, I need to go. Remember the winters of our childhood.”

“I will,” Gleb said solemnly, “Be safe, Polya. I'll talk when I can.”

The line clicked off, and he set the hotel telephone back on its hook with a strange feeling in his gut, half heaviness and half lightness. It hadn’t sunk in that he may never see Polina again. Yet he trusted her with all of his heart, and knew that if Polya couldn’t hide him, then no one could. When she had told him to remember winters of their childhood, it was not simply a sentimental request—it was a reminder of the code they used.

 _I have been thinking of the foxes in the winter._ One could write any lines enumerating something stupid a fox had done, like diving headfirst into a snow bank, but the importance was in the coat. _A handsome silver one was seen walking down the Nevsky Prospekt._ Silver or white coated foxes could pass easily through an arctic winter unseen. They were safe from predators. _Some poor brown fox hadn’t gotten the memo—_ A brown fox would be quickly picked off. _And this stupid fox got himself stuck in a trash can_ was code for _Oh, Gleb, you’re fucked._ So the code went. 

Gleb took a deep breath. He was not a religious man, but at the moment, he sent up a prayer to whatever deity there was: _Thank you for putting the most clever woman in Russia at my side to be my friend._

 

* * *

 

Dmitry slid into the seat across from Gleb that morning as silently as a cat. As a spy, Gleb was rather impressed. A man who wasn’t trained probably would have only noticed his presence when Dmitry tapped on Gleb’s coffee cup. Gleb turned down his French newspaper.

“Good morning, Dmitry Petrovich,” he greeted, gesturing to the overturned coffee cup on the saucer, “Coffee?”

“ _Spasibo_ ,” Dmitry grumbled, and Gleb righted the cup and poured some from the ceramic pot. 

“Creamer’s in the little metal thing, and there are both brown and white sugar cubes,” Gleb added, “We’re dining in paradise, comrade.”

Gleb pretended to study the paper, but in actuality glanced up at Dmitry, who was in turn contemplating the differences between the sugar cubes. He looked neat, a far cry from the rough traveling clothes from the day before. A lock of dark brown hair was slipping from his pomade into his face, and Gleb itched to smooth it back; an urge he quickly and mercilessly squashed. 

“What’s the difference between white and brown sugar?” Dmitry finally asked. 

“To be honest with you, I have no idea,” Gleb admitted, “I suppose there’s a difference in taste, but I’m still trying to figure out what it is.”

“At least you’re honest about it,” Dmitry sighed, dropping one of each into his cup with two satisfying _plops._ “So what’s the plan for today? Anya is out with Countess Lily, and Vlad is apparently going to arrange a few things at the banks.”

“I talked to Polya, and after avoiding what I thought was certain death, she agreed to help me,” Gleb replied, “Most of my money is going to be in a Swiss bank account by this evening, and she’ll send a telegraph in code to the hotel.”

Dmitry looked impressed, took a long gulp of coffee, and even after that burst of caffeine and clarity _still_ looked impressed. Gleb took it as a victory. 

“That sounds like a lot of work,” Dmitry finally said.

“I don’t want to die,” Gleb replied. 

“Touché,” Dmitry replied, and lifted his cup. After a moment, Gleb realized it was a toast. He lifted his own coffee and clinked it against Dmitry’s cup. Dmitry suppressed a smile, hiding the small twist of his lips in the cup as he took a sip. 

Gleb took a moment to watch him. Between the soft lock of hair in his eyes—dark eyes that seemed to always be sparkling with mirth, much like Anya’s blue ones—and his easy demeanor, and his sense of humor… Reluctantly, Gleb could see what Anya saw in him. 

“How much money do you have right now?” Dmitry asked, unperturbed by Gleb’s scrutiny, “We need those train tickets from… Gare du Nord? As well as—“

“A down payment on a house or townhouse,” Gleb finished, “And we’re leaving from Gare l’Est.”

“What time?”

“I was thinking a slightly later train,” Gleb said, and then met Dmitry’s eyes and smiled, a little sheepishly. If Anya was going to be marrying Dmitry, he ought to at least make an effort.

“I was hoping to walk there,” he explained, “I don’t know how much I’ll be seeing of Paris after we go to Reims. I wanted to… experience it, a bit, you know?”

Dmitry stared at Gleb for a long moment, sitting back in his chair and crossing his legs.

“You know, when I came to Paris, I was just excited to sleep in a bed and take a real bath,” he said, “I wasn’t expecting to be a tourist.”

Stung, Gleb looked into his coffee, taking the statement as a rejection. 

“…So being a tourist could be nice," Dmitry continued, his tone slightly apologetic. 

“Oh,” Gleb gulped, “Well, that’s good, then.”

There was a long, awkward moment of silence as a waiter appeared to take their orders for food, and then left. Gleb poured himself more coffee, stirring in another cube of sugar and more cream. 

“Anya, for whatever reason, wants us to be friends,” Dmitry said abruptly, “And I’m hoping to make her happy for the rest of her life, so if she wants us to be friends, we should be. Or at least try to be. You and I are from very different worlds, so it’s not going to be easy, and I’m pretty sure we’re going to fight more often than not. I don't like being contradicted, and I’m not easy to get along with. Vlad and Anya have said it enough.”

Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov knew a truce flag when he saw one.

“To be honest, after serving in the army and being in the Cheka for so long, I’ve gotten quite used to being contradicted,” Gleb confessed, “I suppose that’s what you and Anya need sometimes. I can… bend, a bit, if the situation calls for it.”

He took a deep breath, meeting Dmitry’s gaze evenly.

“I understand it won’t be easy, and you and Anya both have a great deal of grief caused by… if not me, then my family or the government I work for. Worked for. But I want you to know I really do appreciate this chance, and… and I want to make the most of it. I’ll try to make this work. And I will try to operate on good faith.”

“Then, in good faith, who is Polya? Do we need to be worried about her?” Dmitry asked, looking wary but determined at the same time, “Is she another Cheka agent?”

 _You left yourself wide open for that one, Vaganov_ , Gleb sighed, but nodded.

“Polina is another agent, yes, but she’s my secretary,” he explained, “And more importantly, she’s my oldest friend. We spent our childhoods together. She would never do anything to betray me. Or betray _us._ ”

Dmitry looked shocked. He didn’t speak until the waiter brought them their toast and omelettes.

“Is it so surprising?” Gleb asked, the tantalizing aroma of peppers and onions filling the air as he cut into the omelette. It was light, fluffy, and just barely crisped on the edges. In short: perfect, and something he couldn’t remember having the like of since before the war.

“I can’t believe you have _friends_ ,” Dmitry breathed, before cracking into an absolutely _devastating_ smile. In spite of himself, Gleb laughed, resisting the urge to flick an onion like a child.

 _You’re going to break your own heart_ , Polina had said. If he wasn’t careful, it’d be in more ways than one.

 

* * *

 

The train to Reims was quiet. It took the better part of three hours, but Gleb found it a profound relief when they stepped out of the station to see the new city. 

“It’s busy, but it’s quiet,” Dmitry said quietly, coming to stand next to Gleb, “Like Petersburg. Not filled with car horns like Paris.”

Indeed, Reims was filled with French chatter and the sound of construction crews. Trucks passed by filled with bottles of wine that clinked together and rustled straw. Gleb vaguely recalled Sophie telling him that Reims was the unofficial capital of Champagne-Ardenne.

“I already feel reassured,” Gleb replied dryly, “Let’s find the flower shop.”

He had promised Sophie that as soon as he got to Reims, he would find her aunt and tell her about Anya. Sophie had seemed so enthusiastic about getting Gleb’s “young lady” a nice job that Gleb didn’t quite know how to ask if the woman in question genuinely needed workers or if Sophie was going to hold a place for Anya out of sheer force of will. 

“She said it was, what, through the park, past the Hôtel de Ville, down some other road to the Place du Forum? And then it was—”

“Past the Place du Forum to Place Royale,” Gleb corrected.

“Oooh, I don’t know if I can send the Bolshevik to the _Place Royale,_ ” Dmitry smirked.

“Don’t start,” Gleb replied, turning a terrifying glare on Dmitry, “I’m just as out of place here as you are, if not more. We’ll go to the flower shop, ask after a place for Anya, then figure out what next.”

“I think what next should be dinner,” Dmitry grumbled, “It’s almost six.”

“Flower shop first,” Gleb insisted, and Dmitry groaned very loudly. 

“Are all Cheka officers this devoted to their plans as you?” Dmitry huffed, “First, the train station. Gare l’Est, not Gare du Nord. Then straight to the flower shop, then a hotel. No deviations. No stopping!”

“I stopped plenty on the way to the train station!” Gleb protested, picking up his bag and setting forth towards the large park outside the train station, “But now that we’re in Reims, we need to focus!”

“We should have brought Anya,” Dmitry muttered, “She’s way more charming than you are.”

“And much less sullen than you!” Gleb snapped, “Come on. I don’t know when this shop closes, and it’ll be a miracle if we make it in time.”

Dmitry rolled his eyes, picking up his own traveling case and following Gleb reluctantly. His reluctance faded only halfway through the park when they spotted a stand with a man selling crêpes.

“You can go to the flower shop, I’ll meet you there,” Dmitry said eagerly, “I’m getting some dinner.”

“ _Dmitry,_ ” Gleb groaned, “Be serious! I want to get this done as soon as we can!”

Unperturbed, Dmitry turned back to grin disarmingly at Gleb. Not for the first time, Gleb thought that if he smiled like this at Anya often, it was no wonder she had chosen Dmitry over himself. 

“I’ll get you one too,” he offered, suddenly buoyant at the prospect of food, “Go on. I'll meet you there.”

Feeling as though he hadn’t been given much of a choice in the matter, Gleb nodded and continued on through the park. Spring in France was blooming, with the tiniest bright green leaves unfolding slowly from the trees. Birds sang in the trees, and Gleb felt his own stomach grumble as he left the park and crossed the street. Rue Thiers wasn’t supremely difficult to find, and the Hôtel de Ville of Reims was still visible beneath all of its scaffolding. From there, it was a relatively straight shot down to the Place Royale, and peering down the street, Gleb could see the spires of the cathedra, crumbling but still upright. He turned in a circle at the Place Royale, biting his lip, but as the cathedral bells chimed five, he caught sight of the flower shop.

The sign was painted in yellow, and slightly faded, but _Morceau Fleurs_ was still easily legible beneath the dust from the construction across the street. An older woman with grey streaking her dark hair appeared to be locking the door.

“Madame!” Gleb called, and hurried across the street. The woman looked up from her process and smiled, clearly familiar with young men dashing across the street to ask her to wait.

“Are you hoping to get a bouquet for your sweetheart?” She asked warmly, clearly amused. She looked nothing like Sophie, but Gleb didn’t take this to heart, knowing he himself didn’t strongly resemble his own father.

“Non, madame, I…” Gleb began, and trailed off, “Are you Sophie Sauveterre’s aunt?”

The older woman paled.

“Yes, I am,” she responded, reaching out to grab his arm, “Has something happened to my Sophie? I’m Aurélie Morceau.”

“No, no, Sophie is fine; she’s wonderful,” Gleb explained hastily, “It’s just, I’m moving to Reims in a few days, as soon as possible, and my friend Anya will be moving with me, and another friend of ours—we're all looking to find jobs, and I met Sophie, who thought Anya would be a perfect fit for your shop. Are you hiring?”

Aurélie Morceau looked rather flabbergasted at this sudden influx of information, but took it with a kind of Gallic grace, and nodded.

“You’d better come inside, my dear,” she said after a long pause, “It sounds like you have quite a story to tell. What kind of name is Anya?”

“I guess you’d call her _Anastasie_ ,” Gleb said, frankly grateful that Madame Morceau hadn’t turned him away or acted like he was insane, “We—Anya, Dmitry and I, are all from Russia. Leningrad. Saint Petersburg, I guess, I don’t know if the French still call it that.”

“Are you immigrating here to France?” Madame Morceau asked archly, “And what can your Anya do that I couldn’t hire a nice French girl to do? Does she speak French?”

“Better than I can,” Gleb said honestly. He took a moment to look around the shop. The interior was done in wood painted white, and though it was approaching the evening, Gleb could tell that in the daytime it would be bright and beautiful. 

“Well, I suppose I can’t argue with that,” Madame Morceau snorted, “You have an accent.”

“I haven’t been in France long,” Gleb said sheepishly, “I think it will be better with practice, won’t it?”

“Hm,” Madame Morceau allowed, “And what is your relationship to _Anastasie?_ Are you her sweetheart?”

Gleb closed his eyes.

“No,” he sighed, “I wish I was. But no. Dmitry is. They’re to be married as soon as her grandmother can arrange it.”

“Her grandmother?”

“That’s the only member she has in France. And also the only family member she has alive.”

The bell at the door jingled, and Dmitry walked in, a savory crêpe filling the shop with the aroma of ham and cheese.

“Gleb! You found her!” He beamed. Gleb took a moment to reflect on how much better Dmitry clearly felt after a decent meal. 

“Madame, this is my friend Dmitry Petrovich,” he introduced, and Dmitry gave a little bow, handing the crêpe off to Gleb and grinning at Madame Morceau in one smooth motion.

“I hope my friend Gleb hasn’t been too much trouble,” he said charmingly, “Dmitry Petrovich Popov, at your service.”

 _Popov,_ Gleb mouthed to himself before delicately taking a bite of the crêpe. It was delicious. 

“No trouble, but I understand you are engaged to be married?” Madame Morceau asked, one dark eyebrow arched, “Are you and your fiancé going to live apart until your marriage?”

Dmitry and Gleb paused. They exchanged looks of dawning horror.

“Is that… the custom… in France?” Gleb asked, swallowing hard.

“There are enough apartments to _do_ that?” Dmitry gaped.

“You’re scaring the poor boys, Aurélie,” came another voice from the door. Dmitry and Gleb jumped. The bell hadn’t even jingled at the other woman’s arrival. She was short, with blond hair streaked with silver that had been pulled into a bun at the back of her head. Her eyes were dark, but seemingly full of mischief.

“Veronique,” Madame Morceau sighed, “They are trying to get their friend, who is not even present, a job.” 

“Then let the girl interview when she is present,” the other woman, Veronique, said in warm, accented French, “What is the problem?”

“They’re all planning to live together,” Madame Morceau huffed, “I can’t have any of my girls be scandals! 

“Do we have enough money to have two separate apartments?” Dmitry whispered to Gleb.

“I don’t know if I like leaving Anya alone,” Gleb muttered, uncertain, but Dmitry shook his head.

“She can handle herself, but her nightmares…”

“She has nightmares?” Gleb interjected, taking a step closer to Dmitry.

“Gentlemen,” the blonde woman said, stepping closer. She was graceful, but at a soft clacking sound, Gleb noticed a cane in her hand. Madame Morceau reached out as to help, but stopped as the blond gave her a quelling look.

“Aurélie, I believe I have a solution to a pressing problem I have, as well as to their dilemma, and perhaps you can help,” she said. Her voice was gentle, but in it Gleb could detect a core of steel he did not often find. 

“My name is Veronique Richelieu,” she introduced herself, “And who are you?”

“Gleb Sergeyevich Vaganov, and this is my friend Dmitry Petrovich Popov,” Gleb introduced for the two of them. Dmitry gave a little bow and the same charming smile.

“Our friend is Anya Nikolaevna Malevsky,” Dmitry added, his smile going tight as he saw Gleb’s eyes widen. There was a long pause as Madame Richelieu took the information in, and then she smiled like a cat that had been rewarded for eating the canary. 

“Gleb Sergeyevich and Dmitry Petrovich, you’re in luck,” Madame Richelieu replied in Russian with a small, satisfied smile as Dmitry and Gleb gaped, “I have two floors of a townhouse open for rent. If you can prove to me for a month that you’re good, upstanding young men and your friend Anya Nikolaevna is a young lady of character, then I will allow you to rent those two floors.”

“Veronique,” Madame Morceau interjected disapprovingly. One could not tell whether Madame Morceau knew Russian, or whether she simply knew her friend well enough to tell she was making a risky offer.

“You speak very good Russian,” Gleb said warily.

“I was born Veronika Aleksandrova,” Madame Richelieu explained easily, a wry smile on her lips, “I would hope I speak very good Russian.” She emphasized her statement with a rap of her cane on the wood floor.

“So you would let us stay in your townhouse,” Dmitry began warily, “Provided we prove we’re men of character and Anya is, um, also a woman of character. Forgive me. What’s the rent, and what’s the catch?”

“If I catch you drinking or whoring, you’re out on the street without your luggage,” Madame Richelieu said sharply, “Same goes for your Anya. I, unlike most of France, don’t care what you get up to if the curtains are drawn. But I won’t have you bringing scandal home. I expect the townhouse to be in order, no matter who is sleeping in what bedroom. If the girl is pregnant, I expect a wedding before she starts to show, no matter who the father is.”

“She isn’t—“ Dmitry spluttered.

“We're not—“ Gleb stammered.

“I trained with the Bolshoi for nearly twenty years,” Madame Richelieu continued, “I expect order. But…”

And here she softened, looking suddenly as wry and mischievous as she did when she silently appeared in Madame Morceau’s shop.

“But I would like to hear Russian again,” she said with a small smile, “I so rarely hear it in Reims.”

“And the rent?” Dmitry asked, uncrossing his arms. Gleb barely realized the other man had crossed them.

“Negotiable,” Madame Richelieu said.

“Deal,” Dmitry said, turning to Gleb, “It’s not going to get better than this. When can we see the townhouse?”

“After Aurélie and I get dinner,” Madame Richelieu winked, “You may meet us at the intersection of Rue Thiers and Rue Salin around eight.”

And with that, Gleb and Dmitry were alone, deposited outside of the flower shop as the laughter of Madames Morceau and Richelieu floated away in front of them.

“Have you ever met a ballerina?” Dmitry asked wonderingly.

“No,” Gleb responded, feeling slightly shell shocked.

“I had no idea they were so terrifying,” Dmitry continued. “Now, finish your crêpe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW, I was blown away by the response to this fic! I'm so glad you all liked it and I hope this chapter meets expectations! Thank you all so much for commenting--it was definitely a factor in my getting this chapter out as quickly as I did.
> 
> I hope you all liked Polya, because Gleb needs some friends who will have his back. A note on the patronymics: they're big in this chapter, but as everyone grows more comfortable with each other, you'll see them a lot less. Dmitry is taking Vlad's surname of Popov mainly because his false papers say Popov, and he'd like to legitimize those quickly, thanks. Anya is taking Malevsky because it's a lot less conspicuous than "Anya Romanov."
> 
> Speaking of Anya, we'll see MUCH more of her in the next chapter, but rest assured she's spending time with Nana and Lily. Possibly forced time. She may have begged Vlad for rescue from another shopping trip. Vlad may or may not have laughed.


	3. Paris and Potatoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anya continues to be a radiant ball of sunshine, Russia is reminisced upon, potatoes are contemplated, and Gleb gets a job.

Gleb Vaganov dozed rather contentedly on the trip to Paris back from Reims. The three days prior blurred together in his mind. Somewhere in the fields that stretched between the two cities, he rested his head against the bright window and was soothed by the rocking of the train into sleep.

That first evening, he learned that Madame Richelieu, neé Veronika Aleksandrova, had worked with the Vaganova Academy of Russian Ballet along with the Bolshoi. During the tour of her flat—two sparsely furnished floors, yet warm and welcoming—she demanded the names of every member of his family, to see if he was somehow related to the Vaganovs who had founded the academy way back in the 1740s. 

(He wasn’t, but he got the impression he had earned Madame Richelieu’s favor for suffering through the line of questioning nonetheless.)

“It was a wonderful time in my life,” she sighed, her voice wistful, “I was prima, and I was in Paris, and I was on the top of the world.”

“And then?” Dmitry prompted.

Madame Richelieu made a gesture and a hissing noise to indicate a sharp breakage. The abruptness of the gesture made Gleb and Dmitry both take a step back, colliding with each other.

“There went my ankle,” she said easily, as though her gesture wasn't nearly indistinguishable from the gesture one would make to indicate a broken neck. “During a performance, too! How embarrassing.”

“…Painful?” Gleb tried.

“ _Embarrassing_ ,” Madame Richelieu said firmly, as though breaking a bone was a mild inconvenience to be borne along with her humiliation. “But that was the night I met my Alexandre. He had roses for the prima—for me—and he was determined to give them to me. I refused them, of course, but he was insistent.”

Madame Richelieu smiled warmly, lost in a memory.

“I swore at him terribly. He thought it was funny. We were married within six months,” she chuckled, “Ah, it was truly the best time in my life.”

“Love truly can be found in the most unlikely of places," Dmitry had snorted, “Like Vlad and Lily. Or even Anya or I.”

 _That_ had prompted Madame Richelieu to inquire about the circumstances of their love story, which was how Dmitry launched into a highly edited story of how he and Anya met. Gleb listened intently, realizing this would be the story they’d all have to tell to any new friends in France. Dmitry turned to Gleb at the end of the telling.

“And that day, when I was planning to leave Paris myself, we ran into Gleb, who was chasing Anya down,” he said cheerfully.

“Oh! Another suitor?” Madame Richelieu gasped, her blue eyes lighting up with mischief.

“Yes, that and the officer charged with finding and returning any false Anastasias to Russia,” Gleb snorted, “But I could never hurt Anya. Even if she chose this one in the end.”

At that, he elbowed Dmitry. Gently. Dmitry appeared surprised that he wasn’t actually bleeding from the sharp bitterness in Gleb’s tone.

Gleb tried on a friendly smile.

Madame Richelieu had looked at him with sympathy, and Gleb dropped his smile, stepping past the both of them.

“So this is the kitchen, hm?” He segued clumsily, and to his relief Madame Richelieu and Dmitry both took the hint.

In the end, they had decided that to spare everyone’s dignity as much as possible, Gleb would get the third floor. It included a large room with polished floors and a barre, and Madame had explained that it used to be her dance studio.

“Until?” Dmitry asked, and was promptly hit with her cane.

“I recovered some movement, but at this age, I won’t dance again,” she explained, “Which is a pity. That snappy Charleston looks fun.”

The third floor also included a small study filled with books on French law previously belonging to Alexandre Richelieu, a bedroom that looked over the street, and the bathroom—complete with a tiled floor, a large mirror, and a claw-foot tub with a shower attached. Altogether, the upstairs was finer than any place Gleb Vaganov had lived in his entire life.

Dmitry and Anya would share the second floor, which had two bedrooms, a small powder room, and the rather generous kitchen. No one discussed sleeping arrangements, and that was a subject Gleb would not have touched with a forty-foot pole even if someone paid him a thousand francs. Madame Richelieu was content enough with each person having their own bedroom, in any case, so they left the subject at that.

They had slept on the floor of the second floor flat, borrowing cushions from Madame Richelieu’s couch and some blankets. Her flat was tucked behind her tailoring shop, inherited from her husband. The three of them often traveling to Paris was a boon to her, she explained, as she made costumes for many ballets and of course, sometimes they were damaged in the post. Naturally, she would give them either a stipend or a break on the rent if they could occasionally ferry the costumes straight to _l’Opéra Garnier._

In the following days, Gleb telephoned their hotel in Paris to inquire after his telegrams and proceeded to telephone Switzerland, thanking Madame Richelieu profusely for allowing him to run up a long-distance bill. After a day of exhausting phone calls and inquiries, he had managed to equally split his savings between Swiss francs and French francs, and was in the process of establishing a new official French identity.

“All bills will be paid by Gleb Varankin,” he told Madame Richelieu, who had squinted slightly but nodded.

“You’re Vaganov to me, my dear,” she sighed, “But _d’accord,_ I’ll list you as Varankin. If anyone asks otherwise, I suppose I can say it’s a Russian quirk.”

In the meantime, Dmitry had been running all around Reims. He came back each day, cheerful and smiling, and announced the day before they were set to leave for Paris that he had found work—a jeweler, it turned out, who had another shop in Paris and received an influx of jewels of dubious origin.

“He’s getting a bit old, and he lost an eye in the war,” Dmitry explained over dinner in a small café, “He said he needs someone with a better eye, and I told him I used to fence jewels in Russia.”

“You _what?”_ Gleb demanded, “Dmitry! That’s—you could have been arrested!”

“And I was! A couple of times, in fact, but Monsieur Revardy thought it was funny!” Dmitry beamed, “So now I have work on commission. I’ll look for something else, of course, but he’s taking me on for now and says the schedule is flexible. I could work for him in Paris too, which will be helpful for when I travel back with Anya.”

This led them to the present.

 _Anya._ The reason both Gleb and Dmitry were traveling back and forth between Reims and Paris to begin with.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Dmitry laughed, jostling Gleb’s arm, “We’re back at Gare l’Est.”

Gleb wiped his mouth, relieved to find little to no drool. He yawned, stretching as much as the tailoring of his suit would allow.

“Spasibo,” he yawned.

“We’ll have to buy furniture when we get back to Reims,” Dmitry hummed, grabbing both of their suitcases, “I didn’t sleep well on those couch cushions either.”

“I need some coffee,” Gleb managed.

“ _Sleepyhead,”_ Dmitry chuckled to himself, apparently finding a very tired Deputy Commissioner Vaganov absolutely hilarious. Mercifully, he handed Gleb his suitcase and led him by the arm to a small coffee-stand within the train station.

By the time they were back at the hotel, Gleb felt somewhat more like a real human. Dmitry kept up a constant stream of chatter with the taxi driver, but nothing could have prepared him for seeing Anya again.

He’d caught glimpses of her during their first days in Paris, but only for a distance. During their confrontation, she wore her red ballgown and a tiara, and he counted himself lucky to help her unpin it before she ran to meet Dmitry. The afternoon at the brasserie, she wore a simple outfit, but her make-up was for that of the red ballgown, and she looked—

She looked like a princess.

Today, she looked like _Anya._

Her hair was braided in a crown around her head, and loose blonde tendrils fell into her face. Her suit was simple, navy blue and in a sort of sailor style. And she was beaming like the sun when she caught sight of the two of them.

 _“Dima!”_ She laughed, and ran straight into Dmitry’s arms. He dropped his suitcase to pick her up and spin her around.

Gleb tried very, very hard not to be bitter. He looked across to the Right Bank, staring grimly at the brasserie across their bridge as he heard the soft silence that indicated a kiss was taking place. His determined stare elsewhere was what accounted for being taken completely off-guard when tight arms wrapped around his waist. Shocked, he looked down to find that suddenly that pretty blonde head was tucked into his chest.

“Gleb,” Anya breathed, her voice muffled, “I thought you might stay in Reims. I’m so glad to see you.”

Gleb tentatively wrapped his arms around Anya in return, giving her a gentle squeeze before letting her go. She looked up at him and smiled.

“It’s good to see you too, Anya,” he said quietly, aware of Dmitry observing the two of them, “You… smell like orange blossoms.”

He paused. _That was not something a man ought to notice about his_ ** _friend_** _,_ he thought, despite picking up notes of tobacco in Dmitry’s cologne as well back in Reims.

“Um. Well. We’ve got lots to tell you, in any case,” he finished weakly.

“And I’ve got lots to _show_ you," Anya groaned, “I think between Nana and Lily, we must have bought out the contents of half the boutiques in Paris. But Nana let me borrow her perfume. Do you think it suits me?”

“Oh no, Princess Anastasia has _too many_ new dresses?” Dmitry gasped, accidentally steamrolling Anya’s comment about the perfume, “How very bourgeois!”

“When in Rome," Gleb sighed, staring down at his own suit, “I suppose I’ll have to buy more as well. It’s a shame the ruble doesn’t go as far as the franc.”

“You ought to start small, Gleb,” Dmitry smirked, “Too much bourgeois behavior might offend your Bolshevik sensibilities. So, Anya, where are we all off to tonight?”

“Um,” Anya said, looking rather conflicted, “Well, Nana wants to have dinner at her flat. With you, and Vlad, and Lily.”

“Well, then I suppose we ought to get ready, hm?” Dmitry began, but paused at Anya’s incredibly guilty look. “Anya?”

Anya reached out to grasp Gleb’s hands. His heart skipped a beat.

“Don’t be angry, Gleb,” she pleaded, “But I haven’t told Nana about you yet. I don’t know how much she knows about your family. About your father—“

"And what he did to _your_ family,” Gleb finished, an uncomfortable feeling settling in the pit of his stomach, “Of course. I have things I need to finish here at the hotel anyways. Don’t worry about me.”

“I'll tell her eventually, I promise,” Anya said, looking vastly relieved that Gleb wasn’t angry with her, “I just… she’s been through so many shocks, and I don’t want… she’s old, Gleb, and…”

“Don’t _worry,_ Anya,” Gleb said soothingly, tucking his fingers under her chin. She smiled at the familiar gesture. 

“I’m not angry. I understand,” he continued, because truly, he did. He didn’t _like_ it, but he _understood_ it, at least. It wasn’t as if he wanted to be introduced to the dowager, in any case. It burned to think about, that the old woman fled and managed to live for all these years on her own wealth while Irina Vaganova and Polya Varankina had to catch a cat and eat it back in Yekaterinburg. 

Yes, thinking of the dowager and her many privileges _burned,_ even if Gleb’s own mother was long dead and the dowager—according to Anya, at least—was a fragile old woman who didn’t need any more shocks.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and hugged him again. This time, Gleb met Dmitry’s eyes. Contrary to how he worried the other man would feel, Dmitry simply looked… amused?

“Affectionate,” he commented in Russian, “I’ll see you two inside.”

Anya let Gleb go, but stood close, smiling up at him.

“You have freckles,” she whispered, “I didn’t realize that you would get them.” 

“So do you,” he whispered back, unsure why they were whispering but following Anya’s lead, “I’m not surprised. You were out walking in the sun, I imagine.”

“And so were you,” Anya laughed, “I can’t wait to hear about Reims. Gleb, I’m so glad…”

She didn’t finish her sentence, but trailed off with a fond look. 

“You were saying something about my perfume?” She quipped.

Gleb smiled unconsciously, feeling like it was the first real smile he’d given anyone in weeks.

“Not orange blossom, I think, for you,” he murmured, “Whenever I thought of you, I’d think of citrus. Lemon, specifically, but I suppose regular oranges would do.”

“You thought of me often in Russia?” Anya teased, her smile turning sly.

“I thought of how you’d absolutely exhaust my supply of lemons each time you’d come to my office for tea,” Gleb teased back. Anya laughed, ducking her head, and turned slightly to go into the hotel.

“I can’t believe you remember that,” she confessed sheepishly, expecting Gleb to follow her without question. He did.

“Of course I remembered,” Gleb replied, thinking of the amount of lemon Anya would squeeze into a cup of his own strong black tea, “I’d buy lemons a week in advance if I had the slightest inkling I might run into you.”

“You’re sweet,” Anya said, looking up with an almost startled expression, “I don’t know how I always forget that about you. You have such a kind streak, Gleb.”

“Buried under that terrifying exterior,” Dmitry snorted, approaching the two of them again from behind, “I ordered tea. Let’s sit down and discuss everything.”

Well. He was _kind._ At least she thought that much of him.

The thought hung around his head all the way to the evening, when he sat at a table outside of the hotel to watch a car pull up to the front. Vladimir Popov immediately stepped out, offering a hand to the glittering Countess Lily Maleyevich Malevsky. Vlad had one tie pin that gleamed, and he adjusted his glasses with one hand as Countess Lily embraced Anya, giving her kisses on both cheeks. Gleb tried not to smirk as he remembered the scene behind the Neva Club. 

Vlad shook Dmitry's hand, pulling him into a brief hug. He could just make out the words in Russian, _proud of you,_ on the older man’s lips, and felt a brief pang of longing for the long-dead Sergey Vaganov.

Gleb peered over the newspaper he held, folding it down as he watched everyone get back into the car. Anya looked back at him and grinned, giving him a wink that made Vlad squint in his general direction but turn away, unseeing. There was a rise and fall of laughter from the car, and Vlad shook his head and followed the others in.

 _It was for the best that the Dowager Empress knew nothing of his presence_ , Gleb told himself. _No one needs to know about me._

Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling of being on the outside of something very important, and merely standing at the window, staring in.

* * *

 Days later, after Gleb had gotten drunk with the staff of the brasserie one last time, kissed Sophie on both cheeks, and left a coded message for Polya from the hotel telephone, Gleb made it to Reims. 

The days passed in a blur—he found a bed and a frame that he and Dmitry had carried up to the third floor, swearing, while Anya and Madame Richelieu snickered from the first floor while eating macarons. They had all eaten in brasseries while they slowly acquired sets of pots and pans and an old set of china from a pawn shop, but today was the day that Anya, Dmitry, and Gleb set out for the market of Reims.

“Do you think they’ll have potatoes?” Dmitry mused, “That’s about the only thing I feel like I know how to cook these days. [Cover a few of those suckers in hot coals](https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1017491-ash-roasted-potatoes?action=click&module=Global%20Search%20Recipe%20Card&pgType=search&rank=1) and in an hour, the stage of the Yusupov Theater is warm and you have a meal.”

“Remember when we managed to get some butter?” Anya added dreamily, holding a straw basket over one arm and clinging to Dmitry with the other, “And we covered them in salt and pepper? I felt warm for _hours.”_

Gleb stared at the two of them in horror.

“Of course they’ll have potatoes here,” he managed, “They’re French, not _heathens._ You two, on the other hand…”

“Gleb, have you ever been poor?” Anya asked, giving him a quelling look. 

Gleb thought of the front, shuddered, and nodded.

“We didn’t have potatoes in Galicia,” he sighed, “I’m sure we would have burned our mouths off trying to eat those charcoal potatoes if we had.”

There was a long, awkward silence as both Anya and Dmitry took in that fact. 

“Well, in any case, we’ll be able to buy a whole lot more than potatoes,” Gleb finally said, “I’m looking forwards to making some proper stroganoff.”

“I never cared for stroganoff,” Anya huffed, and Dmitry snorted slightly.

“Most importantly, I think they’ll have all the fruits and vegetables necessary for, hm. Ratat-something?” Anya guessed.

“Ratatouille,” Gleb finished, looking at Dmitry with surprise, “I can’t believe you know what that is. Few Russians do.”

“I remember Vlad made it for us, one night,” Dmitry began, “It was a rough week for Anya’s lessons, and freezing cold.”

“I came to you twice that week, Gleb,” Anya interjected, “It was so cold, and you let me sit in your office for hours, even when I finished the tea you made.”

Gleb smiled faintly, remembering Anya’s frustration. He hadn’t known then why Anya was so frustrated, but simply chatted with her and took her mind off of whatever was bothering her. He’d believed her so many times when she said she wasn’t at the Yusupov Palace, and yet… he couldn’t remain angry at her now. Now that she had a family of her own. A family that wouldn’t involve him.

“I was never going to turn down an excuse to spend time with you, Anya,” Gleb admit, “I told everyone you were one of my informants.”

“That’s, uh…” Dmitry began.

“It’s _sweet,”_ Anya said firmly, “Back to the ratatouille. Vlad… God, I don’t know how much money he spent. But he found eggplants, and onions, and I think we had jarred peppers from somewhere, and tomato paste. He stole noodles from somewhere and cooked them and it was the most full any of us felt in weeks.”

“Anya and I couldn’t be mad at each other after that,” Dmitry laughed, giving Anya a fond smile.

“Very sweet,” Gleb said, and was about to say more when they turned the corner into chaos. The market was bustling, with spring fruits and root vegetables laid out on every table. The last of winter’s leeks were up for sale next to the season’s first shallots and asparagus. Women were shucking spring peas, and somewhere, someone was selling Merguez—the savory scent of Moroccan spiced sausage permeated the air. 

“…Gleb?” Dmitry asked softly. 

“Yes?” Gleb replied, not daring to look away from the potential feast spread out in front of them.

“Remember when you told me at the hotel we were dining in paradise?” Dmitry asked faintly.

“I recall something to that effect, yes,” Gleb nodded. Between the two of them, Anya was also silent, staring with wide eyes at the myriad stalls.

“That wasn’t paradise, I don’t think,” Dmitry gulped, “This is.”

“Candied chestnuts!” Anya nearly shrieked, and set off at a dash to get to the vendor’s stall. The market nearly swallowed them up, but Gleb took it in stride, looking around at the hustle and bustle. Further up the street, he spotted a bakery advertising almond croissants. Next to it, a man was unloading bottles of wine from a hay-lined cart in front of another store.

Dmitry was right. He hadn’t seen such a surplus of food since he was a child.

Within an hour, each of them had a wicker basket filled to the brim with fresh produce, and another cloth bag filled with various starches and grains. Anya collapsed on a stone bench next to a fountain in a square and stared up at the two men beside her.

“I think we only have one problem,” she said giddily, “None of us have any recipes or cookbooks!”

“Anya, I cooked for my family when my mother was too ill to do so,” Gleb snorted, “I think we’ll manage somehow.”

Anya looked up from her place on the bench and beamed.

“See, Dima? Aren’t you glad Gleb is here too?”

Gleb looked over at Dmitry. Dmitry rolled his dark eyes.

“I’ll be more glad once I taste whatever he cooks,” he snorted, but Gleb noted that as Anya’s smile reached thousand-watt levels of radiance, Dmitry smiled too.

* * *

Dmitry had his job at the jewelry shop, which was ostensibly good for Dmitry and Anya, as every afternoon Dmitry came home cheerful with a new piece of jewelry for Anya to try on. Such pieces included golden rings, lavish paste necklaces, and bracelets that went all the way up Anya’s arms like opera gloves. Anya would laugh and drape herself over the chaise lounge in their living room in a dramatic fashion, adopting a posh accent that seemingly dripped with old money. 

“You sound like _Lily,_ ” Dmitry exclaimed once, laughing when Anya did a particularly bourgeois impression. 

“Look at me, my shoes have crystals on them!” Anya giggled, kicking her sensible brown boots in the air. Her skirt flipped down to her thighs, and Gleb felt his cheeks warm. He looked away, catching the eye of Dmitry, who was just as pink.

“What, am I supposed to play Vlad and take that bait?” Dmitry teased, leaning over Anya and fixing her skirt for her. Anya leaned up to steal a kiss, and Gleb took that opportunity to disappear into the kitchen to cook.

The kitchen was something he had dreamed of while sleeping in the mud on the front. There was a cabinet filled with spices, something that Madame Richelieu had helped contribute to when asked about French cooking, and it filled the kitchen with fragrance whenever the door was opened. As spring settled into France, their pantry slowly but steadily filled with vegetables and the occasional meat, fresh from the butcher. 

Thanks to Anya, their kitchen and the rest of the rooms in their flat would also be filled with flowers. Madame Morceau had met Anya and immediately dropped all of her misgivings when she smiled. Anya was nearly hired on the spot. And each day, she was sent home with flowers to make into an arrangement for a room in their house— _homework,_ Madame Morceau said, _even if men these days can’t appreciate flowers like women can._ Gleb lived for the days that he would trudge upstairs to find a mug filled with sprigs of baby’s breath and yellow and peach roses, or a vase positively bursting with tulips.

Sometimes, Gleb would look out the window onto the street below while chopping an onion and wonder if he was indeed dreaming and would simply wake up, alone, with Polina curled far away on the other side of the bed. 

 _At least someone was happy about sleeping alone_ , Gleb thought ruefully.

But with Dmitry at the jewelers and Anya at _Morceau Fleurs_ , Gleb often found himself at loose ends during the day. The house was organized. The linen closet was spotless. There was always a supply of food in the house, waiting to be cooked for dinner.  

Which is what brought him down to the tailor’s shop on the first floor of their townhouse one weekend in which Anya and Dmitry were visiting the Dowager and the Count and Countess Malevsky-Popov in Paris. Madame Richelieu was mildly surprised to see him, but waved him over. The tailoring shop was filled with all kinds of fabric—colorful dresses on mannequins, suits made of gabardine and satin, and fantastical costumes heavily embroidered and sequined in the window. 

“Shirt missing a button?” Madame Richelieu asked.

“Life missing a purpose,” Gleb grumbled, and she laughed.

“So you came down here to see if I would give you a job?” Madame Richelieu chuckled, “Gleb, can you even sew?”

“I can sew my own buttons on and mend my clothes,” he offered, “I just figured I would offer here before… ah…”

The truth was, Gleb wasn’t sure where to look for work. He had gone straight from the army to the Cheka, like his father before him. Back in Russia, he wasn’t sure he even had a _choice_ to _not_ join the Cheka. He also wanted to be close to his father, who had met Death by the time the officers came to his door. Quitting wasn’t an option, he soon found out. 

But aside from a brief stint as a telegram boy in his youth, Gleb hadn’t held down much of a job aside from being Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov.

And now it was coming back to bite him in the ass, which was why he had gone to Madame Richelieu first.

Blessedly, the older woman took pity on him.

“You don’t have to pay me, I just need something to _do,”_ he begged, “Back in Russia, I was a police officer, but—“

“You can help me run errands,” Madame Richelieu cut him off, and Gleb thanked the heavens that it was before he could make a complete fool of himself, “I can’t manage another basket and the cane as well as I used to.”

“Thank you,” Gleb said penitently, “I can sew a straight seam on a sewing machine too.”

“There’s a boy,” Madame Richelieu said proudly.

It was for the best that Gleb, at that moment, had no idea what complexities Madame Richelieu could inflict with a sewing machine, and therefore had no idea how simple and basic sewing a straight seam was. 

Regardless, it was summer before Gleb’s life changed once more.

One hot June day, Madame Richelieu had shuttered the tailoring shop, put on a wide, straw-brimmed hat, wrapped a fine shawl around her shoulders, and whacked Gleb’s leg with her cane.

“Come along, Gleb,” she said, startling out of a daze induced by sewing buttons onto a coat, “We’re going to get ice cream.”

“What?” Gleb asked, baffled.

“Ice cream!” Madame Richelieu repeated, tapping her cane impatiently on the floorboards, “I hear M. Duval is putting out lavender ice cream this year, and I want to try it before Fabienne does!”

“Petty, petty,” Gleb teased, but obligingly stood with a smile. They meandered through the market, Gleb listening to Madame Richelieu’s gossip with half an ear when a young man sped by them, knocking into the older woman.

“Why, you little—“ Madame Richelieu gasped, “Gleb, your generation has much better manners.”

Gleb was no longer paying attention. In the distance, a young woman’s voice could be heard yelling.

“Stop! Thief!”

Years of work before his promotion to Deputy Commissioner took hold. Gleb took off at a sprint, weaving in between the other passerby until he caught sight of the young man once more. Tucked under his arm was a soft blue object, something that Gleb recognized as a handbag. When the young man turned the corner, Gleb managed to grab his jacket—and the boy when careening to a stop. The handbag went flying, lipstick and gloves spilling out of it along with a wallet. A French curse escaped the thief's lips, and Gleb actually laughed, adrenaline coursing through his chest.

“Madame!” Gleb called back through the crowd, easily pinning the young man’s hands behind his back in a familiar hold, “Your bag!”

Minutes later, a breathless young man and woman came crashing into view, their hair mussed and cheeks red. The man wore a uniform and looked shocked when he found Gleb holding their suspect without difficulty. The young woman had completely different priorities.

“My bag!” She gasped, and rushed to go pick it up, heedless of the young man now spitting French curses. As she crouched by it, an older man in uniform also came dashing up to them, nearly wheezing.

“ _Mon Dieu_ ,” he croaked, “Haven’t had a run like that in years. Charles…?”

He looked between the young man, ostensibly Charles, and Gleb in shock.

“Well!” He said, his mustache twitching cheerfully, “You’re certainly not who I was expecting to catch the thief! What’s your name? You are most definitely not a native of Reims.”

“Gleb Varankin,” Gleb introduced himself, watching the man’s bushy eyebrows shoot up at the foreign name and accent, “I’ve only lived in Reims for a few months.”

“And what do you do for a living, Gleb Varankin?” The man asked searchingly, before shaking his head. “What am I saying? I’m being terribly rude. I’m Inspector Guillaume Romilly, and this is my associate, _commissaire_ Charles Thibault.”

“I can take the young man,” the young commissaire said, and Gleb gladly handed him off, rolling up his shirtsleeves.

“Merci,” Gleb said, and Charles Thibault smiled. The young woman thanked him softly, and then asked Charles Thibault a question in French that Gleb didn't quite hear. He shook his head.

“I work for Madame Veronique Richelieu,” Gleb continued, “But I confess I was an officer of the law back in Leningrad. St. Petersburg. Whichever you know it as. Russia.”

 _“Russia,_ ” Inspector Romilly breathed, as though the country contained a secret he never knew, “And why are you not working with the police here in France?”

“…Inspector, I know very little of French law, a subject I’m educating myself on when I can,” Gleb confessed, thinking of the books contained in the late Alexandre Richelieu's study, “I believe one must know the law before one enforces it?”

“Nonsense!” Inspector Romilly laughed, then looked guilty. “Well, not _nonsense,_ but we need more men of your caliber on the police force. Do you know where the commissariat is here in Reims?”

Gleb answered that he did, and Inspector Romilly shook his hand eagerly. 

“Come by tomorrow morning,” he nearly pleaded, “We’ll work something out. The only officer I have is going on maternity leave, and someone needs to show poor Charles Thibault the ropes.”

“I was simply in the right place at the right time,” Gleb protested modestly.

“ _Nonsense_ ,” Inspector Romilly said firmly, his dark eyes twinkling, “Charles Thibault wouldn’t know a purse thief if it bit him in the arse. Now apologies, I’m off, must fill out the paperwork, but do come by! Tomorrow! At nine!”

And in a flash, he was gone. Gleb was somewhat shocked a man who seemed so portly and rotund could move that quickly, and shook his head.

“ _There_ you are!” Madame Richelieu called, holding two ice cream cones in her hands as she emerged from the crowd. She smiled her cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. 

“And you’ve finally found work that would suit you. See, Gleb’ka? I knew it would be a good idea to get ice cream today,” she purred.

Gleb gratefully took the ice cream cone from her hand. It was the palest purple, and tasted of lavender and honey. _Few things_ , he reflected, thinking of the appointment he had tomorrow, _had ever tasted so sweet_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW, sorry about the wait, guys! For someone with a part time job that's supposed to be capped at 20 hours per week, I ended up working 60 in the last 2 weeks. HUGE thanks to everyone who commented! You're the reason I'm posting this tonight and editing tomorrow instead of editing it in the morning before posting like a sane human being. If you notice any glaring mistakes, please don't worry. I'm sure I'll notice them in the morning too, and fix them then. 
> 
> Fun fact! If you write me a comment, I am SO EAGER to talk about this story I will give you lots of teasers and information about where I'm going to take this story. Feel free to ask questions!
> 
> An important text post from Tumblr user @samlis: the russian word for freckles is vesnushki. it originates from the russian word for spring (vesna) and is formed by adding a diminutive suffix -ushk (which means “cute and small”) to the root.   
> vesnushki is a very cute word that literally means cute little spots that come out in spring, i thought i’d share.
> 
> More importantly, if you’d like to eat potatoes like Anya and Dmitry, the recipe is embedded in the story!


	4. The War Recurs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's awkward trying to be friends with a couple when that couple is fighting, and Gleb finds that out the hard way. Anya and Gleb both have nightmares. Madame Richelieu gives Gleb both vodka and a piece of her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a long one! MAJOR THANKS to everyone who has commented on this chapter and let me scream at them about it on tumblr! That said, we've got some dark content coming up in this chapter (in a nightmare), so if you need more details, click into the spoiler-y end notes before reading, and please feel free to ask me for a redacted version of this chapter.

On Monday evening, the flat smelled delightfully of cooking chicken, stock, and warmth by the time Anya and Dmitry arrived from Paris. All the windows were open, and the June air blew through the flat, bringing with it the sounds of the outside. 

“Why, there’s a _gendarme_ in our flat,” Dmitry crowed dramatically, observing as Madame Richelieu flitted and fluttered behind Gleb to take his measurements. He paused in the doorway, looking amused, and from behind him Gleb could just barely see the top of Anya’s head. She looked annoyed as she struggled to see Gleb over Dmitry’s shoulder.

“Technically, I’m a _commissaire,_ ” Gleb pointed out, shrugging off the jacket that Inspector Romilly loaned him in order for Madame Richelieu to make a copy, “So I’m still Commissioner Gleb Vaganov, just… in French, this time.”

“Oh, Gleb!” Anya laughed, finally pushing past Dmitry and running across the flat to hug him, “I’m so proud of you!”

Gleb hugged her back for a long moment, his smile widening without his consent. Dmitry looked vaguely strained as he watched, but crossed his arms. His expression seemed tight, and Gleb let Anya go far more quickly than he wanted. Anya looked put out, but followed his gaze and stiffened.

“It was all thanks to Madame,” Gleb gestured, trying to break the tension and laughing little as Madame Richelieu made a small curtsey. She barely paused as she wrote down his measurements.

“If she hadn’t insisted on going out for ice cream on the day you two left, I would never have caught that thief, and wouldn't have been offered to interview with Inspector Romilly,” he finished.

“You must tell us _all_ about it,” Anya said, squeezing Gleb’s arm, “Dmitry and I ran into Monsieur Revardy on the way back from the train station, and—“

“His nephew, Charles Revardy, is also a police officer,” Gleb finished, “Yes. We have Charles Thibault and Charles Revardy, and we have to call both of them by their full names so that we don’t confuse the two.”

“How funny!” Anya laughed, but the mirth died from her eyes as Dmitry snorted.

“Charles must have been a popular name in the 1890s,” Dmitry snorted, picking up his suitcase and bringing it down the hall. His footsteps faded as he entered his own room.

“What happened while you were in Paris?” Gleb whispered to Anya, “Did you two have a row?”

“Oh, can’t you tell?” Anya huffed, her demeanor turning closed-off in an instant, “I don’t want to talk about it. Dima’s being ridiculous. It’s not y- it’s not _my_ fault.”

Gleb looked over to Madame Richelieu. Madame Richelieu arched one blonde eyebrow and then looked back down at her measurements.

“I’ll get to work with drafting a pattern for you, my dear,” she said, patting Gleb’s cheek as she helped him out of the jacket, “You let me know if you need anything. And don’t forget about that chicken!”

“Thank you, Madame,” Gleb blinked, “I’ll just go finish with dinner, shall I? Now that you two are home?”

“Gleb, you don’t have to,” Anya breathed, “Let me help.”

Gleb looked back down the corridor, worried.

_It’s not_ **_y-_ **

“If you’re sure,” he conceded, “I certainly don’t want to, I don’t know. Pour Dima’s metaphorical vodka down the drain.”

“Vodka, I could use some,” Anya muttered grimly, eyeing their wine rack with derision.

“ _No_ , Anyushka,” Gleb chuckled, “But we can have a glass of white wine while I cook this risotto.”

“And what will I be doing?” Anya groused, “If you’re doing all the cooking.”

“The chicken is in the oven, so all I need you to do is help me chop up the vegetables for the risotto,” Gleb said firmly. The stock simmered on the stove, strained and ready for use, but he had gotten lazy with the vegetables and Madame Richelieu had distracted him.

Still, one neighbor was better than seven roommates all clamoring for a taste, back in Leningrad, so Gleb counted himself lucky and put Anya to work.

“Monsieur Revardy said that you had stopped a bullet with your bare hands,” Anya said dryly, “I imagine the truth was slightly less dramatic.”

“You wound me, _Anastasia_ ,” Gleb teased, “But you’re right. I caught a purse-thief, some young boy who’d been in trouble for that before. I was in the right place at the right time, and held him down so Charles Thibault could get him, and Inspector Romilly was hot on their heels.”

“Oh?” Anya asked, watching Gleb throw a knob of butter into the pot.

“Well, as hot on their heels as a man in his sixties could be,” Gleb conceded, “He’s like Commander Gorlinsky. Except combine Commander Gorlinsky with a jolly old grandfather.”

Anya giggled, leaning against the cabinets. Gleb grabbed two glasses and uncorked the wine that had been sitting in the ice box for the past hour, pouring them both a generous amount.

“He wants to take me on as a commissaire, as Laurent St. Germain is apparently taking a leave of absence in order to help his wife after she gives birth,” Gleb explained, “I’m not allowed to go anywhere or do anything unless someone reviews my paperwork, because I’m on the job as I’m studying French law, but really, no one let me do my own paperwork in Russia anyways.”

“Really?” Anya asked, her blue eyes wide and taken aback as she sipped her wine.

“Really,” Gleb nodded, “Why do you think they sent us out in threes?”

“I don’t know, why? They sent you out in threes?” Anya replied, cocking her head. Gleb struggled to keep a straight face.

“One to write the report, one to read over the report, and one to keep an eye on the two intellectuals,” Gleb joked, finally cracking and turning away as he began to laugh. The joke was familiar, one that echoed around headquarters out of earshot of Commander Gorlinsky. Anya laughed too, setting down her wine glass and shaking her head.

“Oh, Gleb,” she chuckled, “Wouldn’t you get in trouble for a joke like that, back in Petersburg?”

“Only if Gorlinsky heard me,” Gleb said wryly, scraping the onions into the pot. He rested the wooden spoon on the pot’s edge and rolled up his sleeves. Anya’s eyes dropped down to his forearms.

“Besides, it’s mild, for the French,” he chuckled, “And the men I’m working with have some shared experiences with me.”

“Oh?” Anya hummed, giving the onions an absent stir in the butter. Gleb added a couple of crushed garlic cloves, watching her delicate fingers wrap around the handle, and measured out the arborio rice as she worked.

“Granted, Ypres and Verdun were very different from where I served in Galicia, but we bonded over inept leadership on the front, badly designed uniforms, and useless bureaucracy,” Gleb replied.

Charles Thibault and Charles Revardy had both served in the French Army, as well as Laurent and Inspector Romilly. In fact, the entire office apparently had served in some capacity, including the mysterious Pierre, who was absent for the entire Saturday Gleb was there filling out paperwork. It was the sheer quantity of forms he had to fill out that had attracted the attention of one of the Charleses—possibly Charles Revardy, who had dark hair and a mischievous smile—and one of them made a quip.

“If we’d been issued paperwork like this, we could have used it as blankets in Ypres,” Charles Revardy joked.

“We did, in Galicia,” Gleb snorted, “But more often than not, it was more satisfying to burn it. Warmed our hands and warmed our paperwork-hating hearts.”

Charles Revardy clapped him on the shoulder, grinning.

“How old are you? When were you even sent out?” He laughed, “Couldn’t have been more than seventeen, Varankin, eh?”

“Well, I was seventeen,” Gleb said, giving him an awkward smile, “They pulled me in early. Guess I was just that good of a recruit.”

“In 1916, everyone was a great recruit. Warm bodies and such, hm?”

“Oh, we were never warm,” Gleb said dryly, and at that point, the office devolved into jokes about the constant cold and trenchfoot, among other things.

“It sounds like they’re all very nice,” Anya laughed, “Are there any bad things?”

“Aside from the French law textbooks that I have to read?” Gleb snorted, stirring the rice together and adding stock, “Well, I still haven’t met Pierre. He always manages to be somewhere else every time someone tries to introduce us. And of course, there are no women. Apparently, French women aren’t suited to police work.”

“That sounds… incorrect,” Anya said, raising one blonde eyebrow.

“I pressed Inspector Romilly, but he simply seemed clueless,” Gleb sighed, frustrated, “It’s as though they expect women to just be sitting at home with children, or working simple jobs. Like we didn’t all nearly die and get patched up by a _female_ nurse on the front, hm? Polya would murder me if I suggested she couldn’t do her job because she was a woman.”

“Gleb Vaganov, suffragette,” Anya teased, pushing off from the cabinets. She came to stand next to him, staring into the pot. Gleb leaned over and tilted her wine glass into the pot, chuckling softly when Anya jumped at the sudden rush of steam.

“Will you tell me about the war sometime?” she asked after a long pause, watching Gleb stir. The spoon paused in the pot, and Anya continued.

“It’s just, I was stuck in the wilds of… God, Beryozovsky, for so long, I feel like I missed it,” she admitted, “Dima didn’t fight; he was too young. And of course, Vlad dodged his service, so…”

“I was too young,” Gleb said, then immediately regretted it, “But my experience wasn’t particularly traumatic. Lots of waiting around in Galicia, a bit of starvation, a bit of trenchfoot. Not all that exciting, you know?”

Anya paused, then rested her head against Gleb’s arm. Gleb looked down, his heart suddenly pounding in it’s new location in his throat.

“I’d still like to hear about it, someday,” Anya murmured.

“Then I’ll tell you, someday,” Gleb replied, his voice low and soft. “Now, do me a favor? Pour us both a bit more wine, and tell me what you did in Paris while you were away.”

Anya looked up at Gleb, a tender smile on her face. She gave his arm a little squeeze before humming in assent and grabbing the bottle.

 

* * *

 

In the cold and wet Polish winter, there was a curious silence—not the eerie echoing one would hear on the silent Siberian plains, but a soft, hushed lack of noise. Gleb’s footsteps in the snow barely made a sound.

Gleb was walking towards a forest. It seemed like the only option, given that when he turned around, there was simply snow and emptiness behind him. His hands clenched around his rifle.

“Pasha?” He called, “Vanya? Captain Sokolov?”

A cold wind blew snow into his face as if to rebuke his calls. Gleb gulped.

“…Fedya?” He tried.

Out of the forest stepped his former lover.

Fyodor Innokentyevich smiled, his blue eyes filled with mischief.

“Are you here for me, Gleb Sergeyevich?” He teased, his blonde hair filled with snowflakes. His Imperial Russian uniform was well-fitted and his cheeks were rosy, as they always were in Gleb’s dreams.

“Who else would I be here for, Fedya?” Gleb grinned, feeling himself relax. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, beginning to run towards the younger man. Fedya let out a trilling laugh, slipping into the dark forest ahead of them.

“What shall I give you if you catch me, Gleb?” Fedya called, looking over his shoulder. His lips were pink and twisted in a wicked smirk.

“A kiss behind our barracks?" He teased, “Something more than that?”

“Let me steal you away, Fedya,” Gleb called, watching the light grow brighter and brighter as they made it closer to the other edge of the forest. He reached out and suddenly his rifle was gone, and it was warm, and he grasped Fedya’s warm hand in his own, tugging him close. They spun together through the snow, leather boots keeping out the snow the way they never did in Poland in 1917, and Gleb pinned the smaller man against a conveniently placed tree.

“Steal me away?” Fedya teased. His freckles had faded in the winter, leaving only pale skin behind. “Where will you steal me away to? Aren’t we all at war?”

“We’ll run away to somewhere warm,” Gleb promised, “I’ll take you to Paris. It’s beautiful, Fedya, filled with lights and music and warm food…”

“You sound like you’ve been there,” Fedya teased, playfully struggling against Gleb’s grip.

“But I have,” Gleb replied, confused, “I live in—mmf!”

Fedya had kissed him, familiar and playful all at once. Gleb melted into it, and in an instant, Fedya broke free of his grip and ran out of the forest. 

“Fyodor Innokentyevich!” Gleb gasped, jokingly outraged, and followed him.

The light hit his eyes, and everything changed. Gone was the peaceful snow and the forest, and here was only mud and dirty snow, bullets flying through the air and shouts and screams carrying across the battlefield, and Fedya—

Gleb watched helplessly as Fedya ran back through the muddy field, slipping and sliding, his stolen Austrian uniform too large on his too-skinny frame, clutching a sheaf of papers to his chest. His pale face was streaked with dirt. He looked determined.

“Fedya,” Gleb breathed, and then yelled it. “ _Fedya!”_

He knew what was coming. Gleb leapt out of the trench, trying to reach him before the snipers did. _This time_ , he vowed, _it would be different, it would be—_

The bullet caught Fedya in the back, and he collapsed into the cold mud like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“ _Gleb_ ,” Fedya wailed, the sound of a wounded animal. He lay on his front, unable to muster the strength to turn himself over, and Gleb felt a bullet whiz by his shoulder. He skid in the wet dirt, kneeling beside Fedya to help turn him. Men could suffocate in such thick, half-frozen mud.

“ _Glebka,_ take the papers, take them…”

“Fedya, no, no, you can’t, you can’t—“ he begged, taking Fedya’s muddy body in his arms. The light was fading quickly from those dear blue eyes, and one white-knuckled hand clung to Gleb’s uniform.

“I’m going to die, Gleb,” he whispered, “Make it worth something. Make your father’s death worth something. Tell me you love me, Glebka…”

“I love you,” Gleb breathed, more as a response to Fedya's command rather than genuine feeling, but Fyodor Innokentyevich was already dead in his arms, the precious stolen papers soaked with his blood.

“Your comrade,” Gleb’s father said, placing a hand on his shoulder. Sergey Vaganov’s eyes were kind, and his uniform, different from Gleb’s own, was starched and clean. The scene changed, melding seamlessly into late winter in Yekaterinburg, where Gleb had returned to once his unit disbanded and the war had fallen apart for Russia.

“Get used to his death, Gleb,” Sergey said, his blue eyes filled with sorrow, “Please, my son, he was your friend, but he won’t be the only loss in your life.”

“Papa, he wasn’t just my friend, he was—“

“A brother to you, I know,” Sergey said, his voice far away. Gleb stared, frustrated.

“He was my lover, Papa!” He yelled, his tongue loose in dreams as it never had been in reality, “He was the only good thing Galicia gave me!”

“Don’t say such things, Gleb,” his father sighed, “Is this what Polya’s rejection did to you? You’ll be the shame of all of Yekaterinburg. This family has had enough shame.”

“Papa, please, it wasn’t shameful,” Gleb pleaded, but Sergey Vaganov was already climbing onto the chair. His father placed the noose around his neck, his blond-brown hair streaked with grey. He looked at Gleb sadly.

“Too much shame,” Sergey Vaganov repeated, and kicked the chair. Gleb shut his eyes tightly, unable to watch even in a dream, and turned. Irina Vaganova, his mother, stood in the doorway in her nightgown, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her dark eyes were blank.

Irina Vaganova looked past her son, saw the body that was once her husband, and let out a piercing scream.

With a gasp, Gleb Vaganov woke, trembling, into a June night in Reims.

“It wasn’t real,” he breathed, sitting up and bracing himself against the bed, “It wasn’t real.”

When Gleb Vaganov had said that the Great War wasn’t particularly traumatic for him, it wasn’t quite a lie. He had been shot at on a daily basis, but had only been grazed by a bullet a few times. Mustard gas hadn’t been used against him.

But Fyodor Innokentyevich, a sweet boy from Archangelsk, had died in his arms. He was the first and only boy Gleb had ever kissed.

And after the war, when Gleb returned safely home, Gleb never said a word about him to his parents, aside from mentioning him as a dear and beloved comrade in arms.

It was Polya who heard his mother’s screams, when Gleb was out of the house, being interviewed by the Cheka. It was Polya who caught Irina Vaganova as she fainted away, and it was Polya who found Sergey Vaganov in the upstairs bedroom.

He hadn’t hanged himself, that was true. His mother said to Gleb that Sergey Vaganov died of shame. That wasn't quite true either. He shot himself in the spare bedroom, and soon after, the remaining Vaganovs left a bloodstained house for St. Petersburg, soon to be renamed Leningrad.

The upstairs bedroom felt painfully stifling, the air from the outside too hot and too still. Gleb’s shuddering sigh was loud in the sparsely furnished room.

 _Well, I’m not sleeping again tonight,_ Gleb thought grimly, and went downstairs to the kitchen. He had the pot out and was filling it with cream before he even considered the implications. Irina Vaganova had made him hot chocolate every time he had a nightmare as a child. Irina Vaganova made hot chocolate to soothe Polya and Gleb to sleep after the events in the Ipatiev House.

Gleb Vaganov didn’t even remember if they had chocolate in their flat.

“God,” he whispered, sliding down the cabinet that Anya leaned against earlier that evening, “Fedya. I have not forgotten you, Fedya, but you and Papa need to leave me be. Just leave me be…”

Gleb closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his palms into them. The mental image of blood on Fedya’s pale pink mouth slowly faded into a deep brown covered in stars.

“ _No!”_

Gleb jumped, thinking for a brief moment that it was him, but the voice was too high. The phrase repeated itself, and Gleb was on his feet before he even consciously realized it was Anya. All other fretful thoughts were set aside by the time he’d opened her bedroom door unthinkingly, and then stopped, paralyzed, in the doorframe.

“Anya,” he began, and stopped. Anya jerked awake, turning to him in the doorway.

“Dima?” She asked tremulously, then seemed to sigh, “Gleb.”

“I can get Dima,” he began but she shook her head.

“Please,” was all she had to say before Gleb sat on her bed and took her into his arms. Unlike in his own bedroom, the air seemed to move in hers, and she clung to him when he hugged her. She was sleep-warm and soft, her hair in loose curls over her shoulders.

“Nightmare?” He whispered.

“Nightmare,” she whispered back.

“ _Krasivaya moya_ ,” he whispered, “You’re safe. We’re safe here. Nothing can hurt us here.”

The floorboards creaked, and Gleb looked up, seeing Dmitry in the doorway, the moonlight from Anya’s room illuminating his tired features.

“Anya? Gleb?” He yawned, “What, did both of you have a nightmare?”

The line was most likely meant to be cutting, given the argument that still seemed to hang over Dmitry and Anya, but Dmitry was too sleepy to manage the harsh delivery such a line required.

“Yes,” Gleb answered honestly, “I did. I… couldn’t sleep.”

He meant to say something flippant, about the heat or the hot chocolate, but faltered, and added, “It was _awful._ ”

“The pair of you,” Dmitry sighed, but all of the fight went out of him. Anya was cradled in Gleb’s arms, and Gleb was perched on the edge of the bed, and so Dmitry knelt by the bed, taking one of Anya’s hands into his own. His other hand moved to cover Gleb’s hand, resting on his thigh. The heat was both shocking, and a comfort.

“Do either of you want to talk about it?” Dmitry asked. His face was pale, and his dark brown eyes shone in the soft light.

“It was the usual,” Anya said softly, “My family. Except, well, now they blame me for having lived when the rest of them died. I still… I don’t know how that happened. Maybe one of the guards took pity. Maybe my favorite. His name was Arkady. Gleb, maybe you knew him?”

The only Arkady Gleb had known in Yekaterinburg was Arkady Varankin, Polina’s father, who was killed by rebels in the Revolution of 1905. There was no way Anya could have known him. He shook his head.

“He was so kind,” she whispered, “He said Tanya and I reminded him of his children. A boy and a girl. His son had a crush on Tanya.”

“She was very beautiful,” Gleb chuckled, remembering his own foolish crush on Tatiana Romanova, “I remember seeing her once. She was… very graceful.”

Anya smiled slightly, her head resting against Gleb’s nightshirt.

“She was kind. She would have liked you,” she whispered.

“It’s a pity I have a new favorite princess,” Gleb teased. Dmitry squeezed his hand, bringing Gleb’s attention to him.

“And you, Gleb?” Dmitry murmured, his voice concerned, “I’ve never seen you like this. What did you dream about?”

Gleb swallowed hard.

“I dreamt of the war,” he said after a long pause. “And of my father.”

“Oh, Gleb,” Anya said softly, “You don’t have to talk about it.”

Gleb took a deep breath and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against Anya’s headboard. _These are your friends,_ he thought, _they won’t hurt you._

The dry, morbid part of his mind added, _And if they do, there’s always the Seine!_ Gleb shook that thought off.

“I dreamt of the boy I loved on the front,” he said in a rush, “His name was Fyodor Innokentyevich, and he died in my arms in Galicia. Everyone told me it was just how it was. When there are no women on the front, you make do, and Fedya was the prettiest in our unit. He was my age. We both were forced into the army at seventeen. They say it was just… there were no women, but I… he spoke German, so we sent him behind the Austrian lines.”

Gleb was aware he was speaking in rather disjointed sentences, but the confession was like a flood, unable to be contained.

“The saw him running away,” he said, “He made it almost to our lines when they shot him in the back, and he died in my arms for the papers he carried.”

“Oh, _Gleb_ ,” Anya whispered, and for one long moment Gleb couldn’t open his eyes.

Dmitry’s fingers curled into his own, and Anya shifted, but only to wrap her arms around him.

“We buried him in Poland,” he whispered, knowing his voice was embarrassingly thick with tears, “We had to. We put up a cross. I wrote to his mother. I… I only told Polya what he was to me. Because she’s the closest thing I have to a sister. She… I knew she would understand what I meant, when telling her I loved him didn’t mean that what I felt before, for her and for girls was… false. It’s not. It… It’s complicated, but—“

“So you like both,” Dmitry interrupted, “It’s natural, isn’t it? Men just don’t talk about it.”

Gleb opened his eyes, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. He squeezed Dmitry’s hand.

“Yes,” he managed to force out, “Thank you. I…”

“We’re your friends, Gleb,” Anya whispered, drawing Gleb’s attention to her, “Do you think we would stop being your friends over this? You loved him. There’s no shame in that.”

“Thank you,” Gleb managed to say, and his voice was choked enough that Dmitry scrambled onto the bed and attempted to take the both of them in his arms. Anya laughed, not charming and graceful but warm and a bit silly.

“Olga used to call this a dogpile,” Anya continued through her laughter, “We’d all pile onto her and Tanya. Me and Maria and Alexei.”

“So now we’re dog-piling on you, hm?” Dmitry laughed, “Now you know how it feels.”

Gleb flopped onto his back, feeling uncommonly warm and safe, with Anya tucked against him and Dmitry smiling across from him.

“My father thought you were hilarious, Anya,” he said, remembering happier moments, “He would tell us little stories about how you and Alexei would prank him and the guards. He always laughed.”

“Your father’s name was Sergey,” Anya said, twisting in his arms to look at him. Dmitry watched them both curiously.

“It was,” Gleb confirmed, “He was a good father. He liked all of you girls. When Polya came to live with us after her mother died, he would tell her she ought to act like a princess. And when you came to Yekaterinburg, all of you, he sat Polya down and sighed very deeply, and said, ‘Polina Arkadievna, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you are _nothing_ like the Grand Duchesses Olga, Tatiana, and Maria.’”

“But?” Dmitry asked, meeting Gleb’s eyes. His smirk was as wicked as any of Fedya’s had ever been, and Gleb swallowed hard.

 _Fedya is_ ** _dead_** , he reminded himself, _And Dmitry may as well be dead to you for how in love with Anya he is. Do_ ** _not_** _start this, Gleb Sergeyevich._

“Polya looked very worried, and Papa dragged his hand over his face before he looked at her,” Gleb said, chuckling as he remembered his father’s long-suffering expression, “He said, ‘But I believe the Grand Duchess Anastasia and the Tsarevich would like a brain like yours to help cause mischief.’”

Anya threw her head back and laughed, her blue eyes squeezed shut.

“So she was like a princess after all,” she giggled, “God. I think I’d like Polina Arkadievna.”

“Polina Arkadievna would like you,” Gleb sighed, “When we were children and studying the forces of gravity in school, she decided we needed to test it.”

“Oh no,” Dmitry chortled.

“So we grabbed an old soup tureen with the ugliest flowers on it, and carried it up three floors to the top of the church, and then we dropped it,” Gleb finished with a deep sigh, “I though my mother was never going to recover from the shade of red she turned when she found out we barely missed the priest walking out of church.”

He and Polya been duly punished—no dessert for a month after that. Unfortunately for Gleb, his father took pity on Polya, who looked, in his opinion, “too skinny,” so Polina Arkadievna got to eat Sergey Vaganov’s serving of pavlova, and Gleb Sergeyevich still got nothing.

Gleb sighed, looking at Anya. Her laugher had trailed off and she was yawning in his arms. Gleb turned his gaze to Dmitry. The other man was watching Anya, looking sleepy as well, before he turned his head to look up at Gleb. A lock of brown hair fell into his eyes.

“…Come on,” Gleb murmured, sitting up and pulling Anya up with him, “Let’s go make some hot chocolate, and that’ll help all of us go back to sleep.

“We have hazelnut bonbons,” Dmitry offered.

“We do?” Anya asked suspiciously.

“They were for you. As an apology,” Dmitry admit, “I’m sorry for… what I said.”

“…I forgive you,” Anya replied after a long moment, pushing her blonde hair over her shoulder. Gleb looked on, feeling very much like he should be anywhere but Anya’s bedroom between the two of them.

“You just need to trust me, Dima,” Anya sighed, stepping off the bed, “Okay? I’d never—“

Both Anya and Dmitry cast a nervous glance at Gleb. Gleb blinked.

“—do something to hurt you, like what you accused me of,” Anya finished. “It wasn’t fair to me. Or G—anyone else involved.”

“…I’ll go heat up the cream,” Gleb said, and made a speedy exit.

_It’s not_ **_y-_ **

_It wasn’t fair to me, or_ **_G—_ **

Their fight was about him, Gleb was sure of it. He poured the cream into the pan, turning on the gas stove and peering into the blue flames as though they would tell him something more about the fight.  
****

Anya and Dmitry seemed happy, most of the time. They loved each other. Ostensibly, they'd get married at some point.

He smiled at Dmitry as he and Anya walked in, carrying a rather large box of bonbons, and Gleb laughed as they tried to add the chocolate to the cream without splashing themselves. But the question lingered. If Anya and Dmitry were fighting about him… then really, they were fighting about _what?_

* * *

 

Summer in Reims was very different from summer in Russia. Gleb longed for a cool bowl of borscht, but it never seemed to taste the same as when he made it in Russia. There was a grim shortage of vodka in France, but a surplus of champagne in Reims, which Gleb made do with for the first few months, but by July he was sick of it. He was half-tempted to write to Polya in code and beg for some proper recipes, but refused to waste a moment with the private, “working Russian telephone” they used to settle his bank accounts for such a trivial reason.

Thus, a few weeks in, he was greatly comforted by the siren call of what smelled like beef stroganoff wafting through the rain one damp summer evening, beckoning him into his flat. His uniform jacket had been thrown carelessly over his head to shield himself from the rain, and Gleb found himself grinning as he wove through the streets of Reims, waving off offers of umbrellas from the populace he was slowly coming to know.

Had Anya learned to cook? Or was it Dmitry who was simmering beef on the stove, windows thrown open to air out the smell of onions from the flat? Gleb peered up from beneath the collar of his jacket, curious.

“ _Commissaire_ Varankin!”

Apparently, it was neither. Madame Richelieu leaned out the first floor window, cheerfully waving Gleb inside. He chuckled in spite of himself, ducking under the awning of the tailoring shop before making his way inside.

“ _Bon soir,_ Madame Richelieu,” he greeted, smiling as he brushed his hand over his hair. Madame Richelieu tutted, shaking her head as she observed his soaked form.

“You look soaked to the bone! Don’t you have an umbrella?” She huffed.

“Anya’s umbrella broke, so I left mine for her this morning,” Gleb explained. Anya and Dmitri worked in roughly the same segment of the city, with Gleb’s workplace in the opposite direction, so he typically left before they did.

“Besides, when I left, it was barely misting,” he pointed out, “I didn’t need an umbrella. To each according to their needs, from each according to their ability.”

Madame Richelieu seemed rather unimpressed by that display of Marxism, raising both blonde eyebrows but saying nothing, but helped him out of his soaked jacket anyways.

“You’d better leave this downstairs tonight, my dear,” she advised, “I’ll have it ironed for you in the morning.”

“Madame, you don’t have to do that,” Gleb protested, “I’ve been ironing my own uniforms for ye—“

“Well, I suppose I can make a bargain with you,” Madame Richelieu said breezily, “I’ll iron your jacket for you tomorrow morning provided you come help me eat all this stroganoff I’ve made tonight.”

“That doesn’t seem like a bargain on your end,” Gleb began, but Madame Richelieu looked suddenly sad.

“Since my Alexandre died, I’ve been absolutely awful at cooking for just myself,” she sighed, and Gleb felt guilt immediately wash over him.

“I’m... so sorry, Madame,” he began, but she waved him off.

“The only recourse is for you to come in and help me eat all this,” she said succinctly, smiling once more, and Gleb tried to shake off the feeling that he’d played straight into her hands.

“Of course, Madame,” he said, and Madame Richelieu snorted.

“Loosen up, young man,” she snorted, “This is France. Adults can call each other by their first names, Gleb Sergeyevich.”

A glass of red wine was filled at his elbow, and Madame Richelieu leaned against the chair, swirling her own glass. Gleb noticed one of Anya’s flower arrangements sitting in a vase in the window.

“ _Na zdorovie,_ Veronika Aleksandreevna,” Gleb toasted, and Madame Richelieu clinked her wine glass against his with a wry smile.

“I do hope I’m not taking you away from any sort of dinner plans,” she said, not sounding particularly contrite.

“Of course not,“ Gleb grinned, “This just means Anya and Dima need to cook for themselves. I was actually going to come here and ask you to borrow a recipe. I hear the French make a wonderful beef stew.”

“That they do,” Madame Richelieu smiled, watching Gleb sip the wine, “And I have a whole cookbook you ought to borrow. Alexandre bought it for me when we married. It’s rather simple French recipes for novice cooks.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Gleb replied, “It seems like I usually end up cooking if I don’t want the flat to smell like char-broiled food for the next day.”

“Oh?” Madame Richelieu asked, arching her brows. “Is that what it is? I wondered if I ought to try calling the fire department last week.”

Gleb grimaced.

“No, that was just Anya and Dima trying to figure out how to properly cook fish.”

They were rather adorable, Gleb thought, his friends.

It still caught him by surprise that he could call Anya and Dmitry _friends._ Shocking that the woman he was hopelessly gone over and the man he… well, he wasn’t quite sure how to define the feelings he had about Dmitry, but he put that aside to tell the story:

He had come home slightly later than usual to Dmitry and Anya’s unbridled panic.

“Sit down, Gleb!” Anya had yelled, “We’re fine!”

Behind her, the pan was smoking on the stove, and Dmitry was hastily filling a cup with water to douse the fillets as they burst into flames. Gleb had watched in horror as the kitchen filled with smoke, and Dmitry wrapped his hands in towels to bring the pan to the sink, scraping what once might have been salmon into the basin. Anya smiled determinedly.

“I thought if the potatoes just needed to be roasted over a fire, this would work too, right?” She tried.

“I’ve never been able to afford real fillets of fish,” Dmitry huffed, scraping the remnants into the waste bin, “We just ate what we caught when it was roasted on a stick over a fire too. That was simple, and it _worked._ ”

“Get changed, both of you,” Gleb said grimly, “We’re going out for dinner, and I’m buying.”

Madame Richelieu laughed at the story, downing the last of her wine and setting it on the table.

“Oh, you do keep those two in line,” she chuckled, “And they keep you acting your age.”

“I’m… Dima’s age?” Gleb tried, following her lead and finishing his glass as well. Madame Richelieu picked up both of the bowls on the modest table and paused for a moment, nesting them together before setting them down.

“I admit I had a few ulterior motives to having you here tonight, Gleb,” she said quietly, “You’ll have to help me. The rain makes my leg quite a bit worse.”

“Of course,” Gleb breathed immediately, picking up the bowls and bringing them to the stove so Madame Richelieu could get her cane, “Believe me, I don’t mind helping.”

Madame Richelieu smiled wanly, watching Gleb as he bustled through the kitchen.

“You’re a good boy, Gleb,” she said quietly.

“But?” Gleb finished, when it seemed she would say more and didn’t.

“But I’ll tell you later,” Madame Richelieu said smoothly, “The ladle is in the drawer by your right hip.”

The first bite of stroganoff was heaven. It was all mushrooms and beef, cream and caramelized onions, the taste of Yekaterinburg in autumn on the first cold night of the year. It was as if Gleb was back in his mother’s kitchen, stealing a taste before she huffed and sent him to go get Polya and his father.

“It’s excellent,” Gleb said, his mouth full in his enthusiasm, “I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed this.”

Madame Richelieu nodded for Gleb to go on, and he swallowed gratefully before continuing.

“Anya hates stroganoff, so I rarely make it,” he said, “And Dima is great with stews but he never seems to get the proportions right, but I can’t blame him, because I can’t really get the proportions right either. It never tastes right, and if Anya hates it then Dima tries to avoid it, and it’s been so _hot,_ there’s no point.”

“Such is life,” Madame Richelieu sighed, but winked at Gleb. “Now, enjoy it!”

She reached across for the bottle of red wine and poured them two fresh glasses of wine. Gleb grinned.

Over the course of two bowls of stroganoff and excellent conversation, Gleb and Madame Richelieu polished off the entire bottle of wine. Gleb felt pleasantly warm—not drunk, but warmed, and content.

That was when Madame Richelieu stood, walking over to a small cabinet near the doorway to the kitchen. Gleb watched, standing warily by the chair as he watched her cane tap against the floor.

“Is there anything I can help with?” He tried.

That was when Madame Richelieu turned, holding two shot glasses and a bottle of vodka.

“Sit down, Gleb,” she said, her tone steely.

Gleb sat.

Madame Richelieu glided over to the table, setting the bottle down and the shot glasses down with a heavy clink.

“When you moved in, I told you and Dmitry Petrovich that I didn’t want there to be any scandal,” she said as she poured out the two shots of vodka, “But I see I was wrong to worry about that. I’m sure they’ll be fabulously happy once they marry, and he’s a respectful young man, and she’s a lovely young woman.”

 _Here’s that “but” from earlier,_ Gleb thought.

“But a little while ago, Anya Nikolayevna came down to talk to me,” Madame Richelieu continued, “Asking if I had advice for her, since she and Dmitry Petrovich had fought.”

Gleb’s stomach sank.

“He wanted her to not treat you so kindly,” she sighed, “Because he thought that it was just making you fall further in love with her. And he does not _like_ that you are in love with her. He _tolerates it._ For _her_ sake. He demanded she tell him if she was in love with you, secretly. And she argued that, beyond being deeply offended that Dmitry would imply she was unfaithful to him, she was simply treating you as a friend, because she does enjoy your company, Gleb Sergeyevich, and she wants to spend time with you. She loves Dmitry, but of course, she would not trade a walk with you to the market for anything.”

Gleb had been curious, morbidly so, about what Dmitry and Anya had fought about while in Paris that weekend. Now, his entire body suffused with humiliation, he wished he'd never wondered.

“Drink, Gleb,” she said, not waiting for him to take the shot before continuing. “And the thing is, they both have good points. If you’re going to be in love with another man’s fiancée, you could certainly stand to be a bit less obvious about it. I’ve been fielding questions from Charles Revardy and Laurent St. Germain and Guillaume Romilly and even bloody Pierre Herschel!”

The shot of vodka burned less than Gleb’s cheeks did.

“Does everyone know? That I’m in love with Anya?” He managed to force out.

“They say it’s a pity that the newest Commissaire of Reims is in love with a woman who will never have him,” Madame Richelieu said unsympathetically. She refilled Gleb’s shot glass. He gulped it down, and she promptly refilled it once more.

“But if you’re to fall out of love with Anya, Anya needs to close the door,” she sighed, “She needs to give you space. Living with those two is like watching people lay out a feast while you’re starving, and you’re not allowed to take a morsel.”

“I used to use that metaphor to describe the Russian people under the yoke of the Romanov dynasty,” Gleb said forlornly. He stared at his shot glass. Madame Richelieu stared at him.

“In any case, it’s cruel what she’s doing,” she sighed, “No matter what her motives are. You need to get some space, my dear, and I think you need to think long and hard how to get it. _Da?_ ”

“ _Da_ ,” Gleb said softly, and took the final shot. Madame Richelieu took hers, looking like she needed it.

“Alright,” she said in a much gentler tone, “Now. I believe you need to think on all this. Stop by the shop before you go to work tomorrow, and I’ll have your jacket for you.”

“Kicking me out?” Gleb teased gently, feeling off-balance when he stood. _Half a bottle of wine and four shots of vodka, and you’re already off-balance? What’s become of you, Gleb Vaganov? France has made you soft?_

“Yes, but I’m giving you the rest of the vodka,” Madame Richelieu chuckled, handing him the bottle, “Get some rest, my dear.”

Gleb kissed her on both cheeks before leaving, and trudged all the way up to the third floor without stopping on the second to see Anya and Dmitry. Slowly, in the quiet of his own bedroom, he undressed. The damp shirt was laid over the chair as were the damp uniform pants, and Gleb quietly changed into his pajamas with little fanfare.

He could hear the soft sounds of voices from the apartment below. There was a pause before Anya laughed, her voice carrying through the open window.

Gleb closed his eyes. When he dreamt, it was a familiar dream.

He wove through the streets of Leningrad, Polya a familiar presence at his side. Her uniform cap was askew on her red-blonde hair. They stopped on a bridge over the Neva, one that took them to their apartment.

“What will you do?” the conjured Polya asked, staring down into the water.

“I don’t know,” Gleb replied. The Neva flowed. The water looked cold. Gleb leaned down, resting his elbows on the stone of the bridge and his face in his hands.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, and Polya’s hand on his back was a comfort, even in his dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Gleb's dream contains the violent death of someone he cares about during WWI, right in front of him, because it's WWI and life is terrible. Because nightmares are terrible, and technically are your brain trying to work through trauma and stuff you can't deal with in the waking world, he also dreams about his father's death, which is suicide. Neither of these things are described in gruesome, bloody detail. Even I can't handle that.
> 
> Now that we've gotten those fun bits out of the way, again, major thanks to everyone who has commented or told me how much they love this story! You guys are the reason I've kept at this story and try to publish new stuff within a semi-timely manner, despite life consistently getting in my way. Feel free to tell me what you loved, hated, want to see coming up, etc., because I went in some crazy places with this chapter and need validation. Tumblr is still asmenuke, and I try to reply to all the comments here on AO3!
> 
> also also, in case you haven't noticed, I gave up and wrote a softer Gleb this chapter. We'll be discussing more nationalistic and revolutionary theory soon, I promise.


	5. Failure to Bond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gleb tries to avoid Anya and Dima. He also tries to bond with some troublesome co-workers. Both of these things go exactly as well as you think they will. As a brief content warning: antisemitism and pogroms are discussed in this chapter, not in depth, but I wanted to give the warning.

Gleb woke the morning after his chat with Madame Richelieu filled with a new resolve.  _ It wouldn’t be hard _ , he thought,  _ to have fewer dinners at home and less breakfasts.  _ It would, of course, include less cooking, which was unfortunate, as Gleb wasn’t looking forwards to surviving off of crepes alone. But less cooking meant fewer nights spent in front of a stove, with Anya and Dima holding glasses of wine and refilling his own. 

“Gleb!” Anya called, bursting into the upstairs apartment as Gleb washed his face after shaving, “Is the bathroom free? We missed you at dinner last night!”

…It was going to be harder than he thought.

“I’m fine, Anya,” Gleb said quietly, “Madame Richelieu decided she was going to have me over for dinner. Beef stroganoff, which I know you hate.”

“Oh,” Anya said, caught off-guard when Gleb emerged with a towel over his face. He smiled slightly.

“Don’t worry,” he soothed her, guilt setting in as he lied through his teeth, “I’ll be around.”

He pushed some black hair out of his face, cognizant of the fact that he needed to get a haircut sooner rather than later as the pomade was beginning to lose the battle against longer hair. Anya’s blue eyes tracked his hand.

“Still,” she said gently, slipping by him into the bathroom. One strap of her nightgown was in danger of slipping off her shoulder. Gleb’s eyes fell to the exposed skin of her collarbone before he could stop himself.

“Still?” Gleb echoed softly.

“We do… want to spend time with you, Gleb,” Anya continued, her cheeks beginning to turn pink, “You’re our friend.”

Gleb swallowed hard.

“You just want me to cook dinner,” he joked, and turned on his heel to escape before he did something stupid. Standing in his bedroom, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. To his horror, he was blushing. Gleb groaned, dropping his head into his hands. 

It was going to be much,  _ much  _ harder than he thought to avoid Anya and Dmitry.

Gleb took a deep breath, grabbed his deep blue Commissaire’s uniform, and began to put it on as though it was armor.

The next few days were just as bad. It was as though Anya and Dmitry, having somehow realized Gleb was trying to protect his heart, decided to up their ante on making him feel included. More than once, Gleb walked into the kitchen at an odd hour, hoping to make an omelette or something similarly quick and easy and escape, only to find his friends turning and beaming at him from by the sink. 

Madame Richelieu was unsympathetic to his plight.

“Try harder,  _ mon chou _ ,” she sighed, “Although it is rather odd that Dmitry is doing it too. But perhaps they do just value your friendship.”

Dmitry caught Gleb’s arm as he passed by in the stairwell a few mornings later.

“You’ll come out to dinner with us tonight, won’t you, Gleb?” He said innocently, dark eyes shining. Gleb blinked.

“Well, I mean,” he tried, before the hand on his arm tightened.

“Do you have any other plans?” Dmitry asked.

“No,” Gleb said instinctively, “But—“

“Then we’ll see you after work,” Dmitry said, sounding satisfied, “Anya was thinking that restaurant across from Morceau Fleurs. The one with the steaks.”

Gleb thought of his conversation with Madame Richelieu. Gleb thought of the bill that the restaurant would incur. Gleb thought of his friends doing everything they could over the past two weeks to catch him alone.

“As long as you or Anya pays,” he finally conceded, and if possible, Dmitry looked even more pleased. “A  _ commisaire’s _ salary isn’t enough to take all three of us out for steak.”

“Great!” Dmitry beamed, as though the not inconsiderable expense such a dinner would incur was as negligible as a grocery run, “We’ll see you then!”

He patted Gleb on the arm, squeezing the navy material of his  _ commissaire’s  _ uniform before he let go and took the stairs back up, two at a time.

Gleb watched, flummoxed, before he shook his head and headed down the stairs in total bafflement. His walk was not nearly as illuminating as he hoped it would be, and he made it to work in time to be nearly flattened as he walked out the door.

“Bonjour!” He stammered, practically jumping out of the way of the broad man who was exiting the building. The man turned to look at him, observing Gleb as though he was a stray cat who had deigned to speak up. Perhaps less than that, given that most people would have at least been startled had a cat begun to speak.

“Bonjour,” the man replied flatly, a hint of an accent on that simple word. Gleb blinked, but before he could even attempt to carry the conversation forwards, the uniformed man had set off down the street.

Gleb sighed, leaning against the wall for a moment. The August air weighed heavily upon him; the heat and humidity of Champagne-Ardennes seeped into his wool uniform in a steady, unwelcome creep. Thunderstorms would arrive by the evening, he just knew it.

It wasn’t as though he didn’t see the wisdom of Madame Richelieu’s words and advice in avoiding Anya and Dmitry. It was Polya’s advice too, albeit wrapped up in pragmatism and admonishments rather than the concern of,  _ “You’ll break your own heart, Gleb’ka.” _

Yet it was advice he couldn’t quite bear to take. Someday he knew that Anya and Dmitry would marry, and move out of the apartment, and leave him alone. On that day, Gleb thought, he would possibly stage his own death. Maybe kill himself when they were on honeymoon, so they would have weeks of bliss before coming home to reality. But even that seemed too cruel.

Besides, Reims in the summer was filled with ripe fruits and vegetables, pretty girls in sundresses and young men in linen suits. Even with the constant construction, the champagne flowed, and life seemed as rich as paradise for even the shoeless urchins running through the market.

There was no need to contemplate death in a city so filled with life. Gleb squared his shoulders and stepped inside.

“Oi, Varankin, leave the door open, would you?” called Charles Revardy, his dark hair sliding out of its own pomade and into his gleaming forehead. The door to Inspector Romilly’s office was also open, an unusual occurrence for the  commissariat . 

“Any particular reason why, Charles Revardy?” Gleb asked, wedging a doorstop made of cork beneath the door nonetheless.

“Is your Russian arse just impervious to heat?!” Laurent Saint-Just groaned, “It’s steaming in here! It’s steaming in all of Reims!”

Gleb made his way to his desk, following the lead of the other men in the  commissariat and removing his heavy wool jacket as he slumped down in his desk. Every window of the commissariat was open as far as it would go, and there was one gleaming electric fan seated in front of the largest one, blowing a breeze down the center of the desks.

“Not all Russians are impervious to heat,” Jacques Brodeur huffed from the desk across from Gleb’s, his blond curls sticking to his face in the heat, “ _ Commissaire _ Herschel certainly left in a terrible mood even without his wool coat. Did you perhaps run into him, Varankin?”

“Herschel?” Gleb asked, thinking of the man he bumped into outside the commissariat minutes earlier, “I don’t know. Does he have grey hair? Looks like he could easily knock me out if he wanted?”

Charles Revardy laughed, leaning back in his wooden chair.

“That sounds like Pierre,” he chuckled, “Has he been avoiding you, Varankin?”

“I certainly haven’t met him officially,” Gleb offered warily, “Pierre Herschel? That doesn’t sound like a Russian name.”

“I get the impression it used to be something else,” Laurent yawned, “Peter or something. Like Tchaikovsky.”

“Pyotr, then,” Gleb said, “Pyotr Herschel. I suppose that’s a decent Russian name.” 

Gleb tilted his head, considering. It was a name that was more Russian-Jewish than anything, but perhaps such weight wasn’t given to that particular heritage in France. 

Gleb thought of the Dreyfus Affair, grimaced, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Perhaps the French did give weight to that sort of thing, even still. 

“Rumor has it that he fled Russia on the heels of one of those earlier Revolutions, in, what, 1905? One that failed,” Charles Revardy drawled, “He barely got out of Odessa alive. And his family--”

“His family is none of your business,” Inspector Romilly yelled from the office, “Quit gossiping and get to work, all of you! I thought I worked with officers, not with hens!”

“My uncle was killed trying to put down the Bloody Sunday revolts,” Gleb said into the silence, thinking of Arkady Varankin’s red-blond hair and kind smile. “The loss of him killed his wife. I gained a sister, but she lost a father.”

“Jesus, Varankin,” Laurent said quietly, “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t remember him very well,” Gleb confessed, “I was young when he was killed, you know? But his smile was just like Polya’s smile, when she was actually happy and not scheming. I wish I could have known him better. I don’t blame Pierre Herschel for leaving Russia after that, if anything like that happened to his family.”

“ _ Spasibo _ , Comrade Varankin,” came a dry, unamused voice from the doorway. Gleb turned, his stomach dropping to the ground at the sight of the man who he collided with earlier, a cigarette in hand. He was older--about as old as Gleb’s father would have been, had he lived, and he looked less angry than simply disdainful. Somehow, that was worse.

“So nice you approve of my choices,” he continued in Russian, “I’m honored that even a young man of the new regime can understand why I left my homeland.  _ Our _ homeland.”

“Russia is different now,” Gleb said, the language that seemed to come so easily to him with Madame Richelieu and Anya and Dmitry now scratching out of his throat, “It’s better. The people are content. Everyone is equal.”

“And the Jews?” Herschel demanded.

The stuffy air of the commissariat seemed to grow even more sweltering. Gleb felt sweat roll down his back beneath his shirt.

“Everyone is equal,” he repeated faintly, feeling like he was twelve and trying to explain a poor grade on a test to his father. “I… I am not Jewish, but I heard no complaints… From any Jews… in Leningrad...”

“ _ You _ heard no complaints?” Herschel drawled, taking a drag of his cigarette, “Ah, I see. Were you perhaps Commissioner Varankin back in  _ Leningrad _ ? Since that is what we are calling Peter’s bright city now?”

“I was,” Gleb scratched out, “Deputy Commissioner Gleb V- Varankin.”

Polina’s borrowed surname did not come easily out of his mouth this time.

“And yet you and your fellow strays are here instead of in Leningrad,” Herschel said coldly, “But I’ll take your words under advisement.”

“Pierre,” Inspector Romilly said softly, appearing in the doorway of his office, “A word, please.”

Pierre Herschel tossed a package of cigarettes to Charles Revardy without looking at him. Charles Revardy caught them against his chest, licking his lips before faintly whispering, “Merci.”

Herschel turned, walking back out of the building. Romilly followed, his grandfatherly countenance gifting each and every one of his young  _ commissaires _ with a look that suggested he was not  _ mad, _ just  _ disappointed.  _

Their footsteps faded into the distance before anyone spoke.

“So,” Jacques finally broke the silence, “That’s  _ Commissaire divisionnaire _ Pierre Herschel for you.”

Gleb groaned, slumping down onto his desk.

“That could have gone better,” he muttered.

A cigarette hit him in the head. Gleb startled, sitting up to look at Charles Revardy, who held a lighter and a look of sympathy.

“Gleb, I don’t even speak Russian and I could tell that much,” he said, patting the younger  _ commissaire _ on the head. “Don’t worry, though. Pierre doesn’t like most of us.”

“I get the impression that it’s less  _ dislike _ and more  _ abject loathing _ ,” Gleb said grimly, accepting the cigarette and lighting it before taking a drag.

“Yes, well, you’ll grow on him,” Jacques said cheerfully, standing and throwing his coat loosely over his shoulders, “Come on. Let’s go see who needs assistance in the market before he and Romilly get back.”

* * *

The dinner with Anya and Dmitry that Gleb had so dreaded in the morning was a blessed balm to the soul by the evening. He washed his face in the bathroom of the commissariat, only barely satisfied that the sweat and grime of the market was off his face before he left work for the day. His shirtsleeves were hopelessly wrinkled, but he consoled himself that most of Reims would have the same look about them.

Of course, no sooner had that thought crossed his mind did he see Anya on Dmitry’s arm, sitting outside at the brasserie they had agreed to meet at. Anya was dressed in white, reminding Gleb more than anything of the girls he’d seen in Yekaterinburg, white and shining and spotless in the summer days before the war. The girls who would wear flowers in their hair and steal kisses from the boys by the river at midsummer. Anya’s hair was nowhere near that long, and Gleb knew she certainly never had that privilege during her time in Yekaterinburg, but the impression was nonetheless striking.

Seeing Dmitry was like a second shock to the heart. He looked like a film star, wearing a suit Gleb knew from the market discussions with Madame Richelieu was the latest Parisian mode. His suit was a pale tan, but freshly pressed to nonetheless give Gleb the impression that he and Anya were two steps away from hailing a cab and driving down to Cannes for the weekend. 

“There you are!” Dmitry laughed, standing from their table to greet Gleb. He beamed, squeezing Gleb’s arm in greeting, before guiding him to sit in front of Anya. They were arranged neatly around the small, round table, with Dmitry seated between himself and Anya, while all three managed to face the street. 

“We thought you might stand us up,” Anya teased, “And we’d have to go all the way to the commissariat to find you.”

“Stand you two up? Never,” Gleb laughed quietly, shaking his head, “After the day I had, I needed a night out with you two more than anything.”

“Long day?” Anya asked gently, as Dmitry retrieved a bottle of champagne from by their feet to pour Gleb a glass.

“It turns out I have a Russian coworker,” Gleb began, taking a sip of his flute of champagne, “And he  _ does not _ like me.”

Anya gasped, Dmitry winced in sympathy, and the whole story came pouring out of Gleb. 

“You have to admit, though, Gleb,” Dmitry said gently, “Things are better here. We—Gleb, you literally arrested me for stealing once. It wasn’t perfect and people were nowhere near content.”

Gleb sighed, taking a long sip of champagne. He let the bubbles pop on his tongue for a long moment. 

“You would let me sit in your office for hours,” Anya said softly, her delicate hands tearing nervously into a crusty bread roll, “With all the lemons I wanted for tea. But you were the only one I knew who had heat and lemons. And even you… you only had oranges once, and you rationed them.”

Gleb stared out over the main square. France was still quietly rebuilding from the damage incurred during the Great War. Reims was mostly cleaned up, but scars could still be felt in the wreckage of buildings and the paintings wrapped with black ribbon in the windows. 

“I knew a Jewish family back in Petersburg,” Dmitry said gently, “I got them papers to leave Russia. They lost family in Odessa. Thousands were killed in that pogrom.”

“But our new regime—we were  _ trying, _ ” Gleb insisted, “We didn’t hold pogroms! Certainly it wasn’t perfect, but things were improving! You can’t, none of us could recover from the damage the tsarist regime inflicted over centuries in less than a decade!”

He looked to Anya guiltily. Anya met his gaze and sighed, shaking her head. 

“Gleb, you’re still looking at this in black and white,” she said gently, “Look, I had to accept that while my father was a wonderful man to his family, he… he was not the best tsar. There is good and bad in everyone, and consequently, even governments with the noblest intentions can end up doing terrible things.”

She took a sip of her own champagne, staring out into the street. 

“My father was so proud of the government he worked for,” Gleb said softly, “Right up until they ordered him to kill your family.”

Anya’s head snapped towards Gleb but she didn’t speak, fixing him with a hot blue gaze. 

“He shot himself rather than live with his guilt,” Gleb continued, barely audible over the traffic, “When I was recruited in his place, I… I thought,  _ there must be good in this government. It must be worthy, or else why would my father die for it? _ And… if it wasn’t worthy, did I waste years of my life in service to an organization that was… that was…”

“Awful?” Dmitry cut in, “Terrible? You were a member of the secret police, Gleb. It may have started out from a love of law and order, but believe me when I say you’re doing much more for the greater good here in Reims as a  _ commissaire  _ than you were in Petersburg as Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov.”

Gleb sighed heavily, sitting back as their waiter, with perfect timing, brought out their food.

“Just think about it, okay?” Anya said gently, “As long as you learn from your experiences, it wasn’t a waste.”

“Or maybe it was a total wash, but hey, you can always make up for lost time!” Dmitry cheered, “What is it that Lily always says? ‘We’re not dead now, we’re in France instead now?’”

Anya giggled, and the topic was dropped for the remainder of dinner. Dessert came, and Dmitry cracked into his creme brulee with relish before sitting back and smiling at Anya.

“I know that Charles Thibault should be coming back to his regular duty next week,” he said to Gleb, “And with one more person back, I thought maybe you could come with Anya and I to Normandy. We’re thinking of borrowing Madame Richelieu’s old car and driving up to the beaches. I hear they’re lovely, and Normandy is a bit closer and less crowded in August than, say, Marseille.”

Gleb blinked, his spoon still in his mouth. 

Madame Richelieu would advise against it. Polya would advise against it.

“The drive’s only about four hours,” Anya said slyly, “We could stop in Rouen. Look at the cathedral, walk the labyrinth, eat some Breton crepes…”

“And then we’ll hit the beach and go swimming,” Dmitry said, jostling Gleb gently with his elbow, “Come on, Gleb. It’s August, it’s summer, and soon autumn’s going to come and it’ll be too cold for swimming…”

Dmitry and Anya in swimsuits. Gleb would die. He took the spoon from his mouth, the taste of burnt sugar and iron still strong on his tongue.

“When do we leave?”

* * *

Inspector Romilly seemed delighted that Gleb wanted to take a brief vacation.

“My boy, you’ve worked so hard since coming to France,” he cheered, “Take your books and study on the beach! You know I try to make sure every single one of the commissaires takes a bit of vacation in August. You all go stir-crazy otherwise.”   


Gleb thought back to his coworkers in Leningrad, wondering when the last time any of them had vacation. Polya was Polya, devoted to her work, and her vacations had been long weekends spent walking by the Baltic. Dmitry Denisovich slept on his desk, as though he was on permanent vacation. Ilya Nikolaevich took his vacations in books he’d stolen from the already confiscated Western literature pile. Mikhail Petrovich didn’t need a vacation so long as he was allowed free reign with his guns. 

The longer Gleb thought about it, the more he was convinced that his entire former office was  _ already _ stir-crazy and a long vacation probably would have killed them all.

But France had made him soft, in more ways than one. Gleb Vaganov would always have a core of steel, but the outside had been worn down a bit. His smiles no longer would freeze someone who accidentally bumped into him at the market. It was almost as though living in Leningrad was living on the knife’s edge of constant danger, and being removed from that situation was finally allowing Leningrad’s favorite deputy commissioner to relax and stop looking over his shoulder constantly. 

“Are you sure this is smart idea,  _ mon chou? _ ” Madame Richelieu asked, watching Dmitry load up her car with their suitcases (and Anya’s hat boxes).

“I think it’s probably one of my worse decisions,” Gleb laughed, settling his hand on Madame Richelieu’s shoulder, “But I do need a vacation. And I’ll be happier with them than I’d be simmering and stewing in Paris or in some other part of France, you know?”

Madame Richelieu sighed, but looked at Gleb with a tender expression he’d last seen on the face of Irina Vaganova.

“Be careful,” she said, warmth in her voice, “You know how I worry.”

“I’m a better driver than Dmitry, I promise,” Gleb replied, purposefully misconstruing her worry, “We’ll see you in two weeks!”

Gleb sat down in the driver’s seat, taking a breath filled with the scents of sun-warmed leather and Anya’s lemon perfume. He closed his eyes and started the car, grinning as he shifted into gear.

“And we’re off!” Dmitry cheered, Anya whooping as she rolled down the window and waved to Madame Richelieu as they drove through the streets of Reims.

“When’s the last time you drove?” Dmitry asked, as they made it to the outskirts of Reims. Anya was perched in the back seat, her eyes closed as she let her head hang out the window.

“Leningrad,” Gleb answered, “I was with Polya and Ilyusha, I think. They sent us out in threes, and that was my favorite group to be sent out with.”

“Wait, they really did send you out in threes?” Anya asked, not moving or opening her eyes.

“Mmhm,” Gleb laughed, repeating the old joke, “One to write the report, one to read the report, and one to keep an eye on the two intellectuals. Polya was usually the one keeping an eye on us. Once, we drove all the way to Moscow for a meeting. It was nice. Quiet. Early autumn, around my birthday. We sang on the way home.”

The fields around the road were golden, just as they had been on that early autumn day. Ilya Nikolaevich had sat in the back, stretched across the back seat, relaxed at finally being given a reprieve from his usual partner Mikhail Petrovich and his guns. Polya had turned in the seat to tease him about his books, and Ilya had basked in her attention. It was a cheerful, calm ride; one that Gleb found he missed somewhat.

There was a brief pause before Anya finally moved, pulling herself all the way back into the car.

“Your birthday?” she asked.

“October,” Gleb replied, “October 7th.” 

Satisfied, Anya leaned back out the window, letting the sunlight darken her freckles.

“What Anya means is that it’s good we haven’t missed it,” Dmitry said wryly, “We celebrated hers in Paris, with her Nana. I was born in January, so mine isn’t an issue yet either.”

“I don’t need anything much for my birthday,” Gleb said, remembering the sting of having to give Anya her present after everyone else had celebrated, “I haven’t really celebrated anything big since before the War. Polya and I would go out for drinks, maybe with some of the other staff, if we remembered. I’m not so big on celebrating.” 

“Hm,” Dmitry considered, “Well. I am, and I certainly intend for us to celebrate before this vacation is over!”

Gleb kept his eyes on the road, casting only a quick glance at Dmitry’s smug, cat-with-canary-feathers-on-its-whiskers expression. All the talk of “Anya and I,” “Dmitry and I,” had made Gleb feel somewhat like a last-minute addition to the trip to Normandy. It would remain to be seen whether he was the afterthought he felt like he was.

Anya chattered merrily from the back seat, making sure to include both Gleb and Dmitry in the conversations. She clearly saw nothing wrong with Gleb being included on the big trip.

Given the way that Dmitry seemed to be fiddling with something in his pocket in the front seat, where Anya couldn’t see his hands, Gleb wasn’t so sure.

It was just the right size for a ring box, after all, and as the sounds of the sea grew louder and louder as they reached Normandy, Gleb Vaganov had the distinct impression his life would be nowhere near the same after this trip. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GREETINGS LOVED ONES! I'm free from graduate school for the time being, and I'll continue being free until my summer course and work really kicks in. In the meantime, I hope to really get back into writing and this fandom. Y'all are so kind and wonderful, I'm happy to be back.
> 
> On a more serious note, I felt bringing up antisemitism was important, given that this story doesn't pull punches as much as LTFT on real historical events. I've grounded this story more in reality than LTFT, in all events, and I use the real ones in order to help Gleb tackle his nationalism and grow. I'm not Jewish, and though I did hand this chapter off to a friend who IS Jewish to ask if I handled it properly, I recognize that our experiences aren't universal. If you feel that I've handled this topic poorly, please please PLEASE feel free to PM me and talk to me about it. 
> 
> The pogrom that is referenced in this chapter happened in Odessa in 1905. While the czarist regime had a crap track record with treating Jewish people like people, it's important to note that the later Soviet regime ALSO had a crap track record with this, and it's one of those things Gleb really needs to realize in order to grow. I also referenced the Dreyfus affair, which happened in France in 1894 in which antisemitism was heavily involved. Again, if you think I handled this poorly, PLEASE come talk to me! I want to know. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this, for being patient, and for leaving comments! I promise you won't have to wait six months for the next chapter.


	6. The Beaches of Normandy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now is a GREAT time to remember that Gleb is an unreliable narrator. He makes a LOT of assumptions this chapter. Not all of them are true.

The ride to Normandy felt like a stay of execution. It was beautiful, of course. Gleb guided Madame Richelieu’s old car up a hill and pulled off to the side of the road once they reached the top of the white cliffs, as all conversation had ceased at the sight of the sea, glimmering in the distance with what seemed like all of Normandy spread out beneath their feet.

“Oh Gleb, can we--”

“Gleb, cut the engine!”

“--get out and enjoy the breeze?”

“Come on, we ought to savor our first glimpse of the beaches!”

“Please Gleb, we’ve been driving for hours--”

“ _ Gleb’ka-a-a _ …”

At Dmitry’s teasing whine of his most embarrassing nickname, Gleb hastily cut the engine. Dmitry and Anya continued talking over one another, neither seeming to care that the other was only barely listening in their excitement. They clambered out of the car, laughing, and stopped just before the hill began to slope down towards the sea.

That was the picture Gleb kept in his mind, of Dmitry and Anya’s backs, staring out at the ocean. Their enthused chatter quieted, and as Gleb watched, Anya took Dmitry’s hand and gently brought it to her lips for a kiss.

Something in Gleb cracked, watching Dmitry turn and stare at Anya in wonderment. Gleb leaned against the car, looking down the road at the incline he’d have to guide the car down and pretending that the sting in his eyes was simply because of the wind and the suddenly-salty air.

He would have died for Anya to look at him the way she looked at Dmitry, he thought, and then with a sudden lurch in his stomach, realized he would also kill for Dmitry to look at him the way he looked at Anya.

_ You’re going to break your own heart, Gleb’ka _ , came Polina Arkadievna’s voice, unbidden and warm and sad.  _ And I can’t do anything to stop you. _

That was Polya, for him. He remembered the day he was called up to serve in the military in an official capacity with sudden clarity: spring, and the apple trees were blooming. Polya had been sitting under one such tree, and there were flowers in her hair. 

Gleb had gotten down on one knee in front of her, and taken one of her delicate hands in his own, his heart in his throat, and laid down the facts.

“Polya, they’ve called me up to serve,” he said, and Polya had made a noise in her throat, something between a choke and an exclamation.

“No, Gleb’ka, you can’t leave us,” she breathed, her delicate fingers clenching in his grasp,  “Gleb, we barely made it through last winter as it was, you can’t!”

“Polya, I’ve got no choice,” he responded softly, “It’s a draft.”

“You’re seventeen,” she whispered, “ _ Seventeen. _ ”

“I’ll send money home,” he said grimly, “I’ll take care of you, Polya, I promise.”

“How?” she choked out, “Gleb, what guarantee do you have that the money will make it to me? We’re not related, we’re not--”

“Polya,” Gleb said, hoping Polina couldn’t feel his hands tremble, “You could marry me.”

Polina Arkadievna Varankina, for the first time in her life, did not have a witty reply. She stared at Gleb, her blue eyes wide and mouth slightly open.

“Polina Vaganova,” he said, to fill the silence more than anything else, “You know I love you, Polya. I would-- I could take care of you this way, Polya. It would mean you were safe. I’d buy you a ring and everything, and I--”

Polya had leaned forwards, then, and kissed him. They had kissed before, in parlor games and behind trees, when he caught her playing tag. Gleb shut his eyes instinctively, startled into silence and stillness by the press of her lips.

When she pulled away, they both remained silent for a moment, staring at each other.

“What did you feel,” Polya demanded, her voice trembling. 

“What I always feel when I kiss you,” Gleb replied, just as unsteady, “I love you, Polya…”

Polya was silent for a long moment. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath.

“Not the way we should love each other, if we were to marry. I want to marry someone who isn’t going to go off to get shot,” she said quietly, “If you came home, Gleb’ka, and I hope you do… I don’t know if we could grow to love each other the way we should.”

“The way we should?” Gleb asked, stunned.

“I love you too,” Polya said softly, “But I don’t know if we could build a life together, after the war. Everything is so different. I… I want to do something useful. I don’t want to be taken care of, Gleb. And you need someone to take care of.”

Gleb opened his eyes, pushing away the memory of Polya with apple blossoms in her hair. Anya stood in front of him, her blonde head resting against Dmitry’s shoulder. Gleb bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. 

He wanted to take care of the two of them, he realized. He was now  _ commissaire  _ Gleb Varankin, who did most of the cooking and loaned his umbrellas to his beloveds and made sure they were safe and cared for and happy when he could. 

Polina was never the type of woman who could stand that care. She knew, even at sixteen, that she and Gleb would never be a match, and though it hurt at the time, he had thanked her many times over the years for that foresight. She was eager to meet poor doomed Fyodor Innokentyevich, who Gleb would have happily cared for had he survived the war. But she knew that falling for Dmitry and Anya would only lead him to heartbreak.

But this wasn’t a spring proposal on the brink of being sent to his death on the front. She didn’t have the power to stop him from falling this time.

Gleb turned away from Dmitry and Anya and the sea and wiped his eyes.

_ You’re going to break your own heart _ , Polya echoed.

_ I already have _ , Gleb thought grimly,  _ I already have. _

* * *

Their hotel in Normandy was light and airy, the perfect sort of seaside hotel that you would see on postcards. Gleb was tempted to buy one and send it back to his old partners in Leningrad--

_ Dear Polya and Ilyusha, _

_ Normandy is beautiful and I’m ready to walk into the sea and never come out. Water’s great, haha! Wish you were here! Preferably to save me from myself! _

He decided against sending a postcard, but bought one anyways to tack up in his mirror back in Reims. He placed the small purchased trinket next to the portrait of his family from 1908, the one that he had forgotten was even in his suitcase and kept meaning to take out and frame when he was back home.

It was almost strange to think that Reims was now  _ home _ , but Gleb didn’t give it too much thought when a knock came on the door. Dmitry and Anya had separate rooms, for propriety’s sake, and each room was at least small enough to allow for such luxury. Thinking it was probably Dmitry or Anya, Gleb barely looked up from his unpacking.

“If it’s Anya or Dima, come in,” he called, hanging a shirt in the wardrobe, “The door’s unlocked.”

Dmitry stalked into his room like a cat, looking around silently before speaking.

“Well, your room isn’t any bigger than mine or Anya’s,” he sighed, “Anyways, we’re thinking we’re going to take a walk after dinner, so you ought not to wear your best shoes, okay?”

“Don’t you two want, I don’t know, some alone time? It’s 1928. You’re adults. I don’t think you need a chaperone,” Gleb grumbled, stepping away from the wardrobe. He glanced down to the postcard and the photograph, then to Dmitry’s face.

With a start, Gleb realized Dmitry was nervous.

“I’d like you to come with us,” he said, his fingers tapping out a frightened beat on his leg, “I… I’m asking Anya something important and I… Look, I’m going to ask her to marry me, and now that I’ve told you, this means I can’t chicken out and not do it.”

The first time Gleb was shot, he didn’t feel it until Fedya pointed out he was bleeding. Then the pain rushed in.

This was something like that.

“Congratulations,” Gleb said after what must have been too long of a pause, “I… she’ll say yes, you know. There’s no need for you to worry.”

She would say yes, Gleb knew. He’d known from the start, when Anya was still in her gleaming red dress, beaming about the possibility of marrying a commoner.

“But I still have to  _ ask _ ,” Dmitry whispered harshly, “I bought the ring from Revardy and everything!”

“There’s no need for you to stress like this,” Gleb sighed, staring at his parents in the photo. He was nine and Polya was eight, and they both stared at the camera with wide eyes and solemn mouths. Well, Polya looked like she was holding back a smile. He still looked solemn. His parents, however, were holding hands and smiling softly, their bodies angled towards each other.

“Just say you’ll come, please?” Dmitry begged, “Gleb…”

“I’ll come,” Gleb sighed, picking up the photograph, “Don’t worry.”

The entire room seemed to brighten when Dmitry relaxed. He smiled, walking over to the vanity to bump Gleb’s shoulder with his own. Gleb could smell the notes of tobacco in his cologne.

“I’ve never proposed before,” Dmitry said quietly, staring down at the photo.

“I have,” Gleb shrugged, “It’s about thirty seconds of sheer terror, but once you get an answer, it’s over with. No need to worry overmuch.”

Dmitry was silent for a long moment, then looked at Gleb consideringly.

“Who did you propose to?” he asked, then grimaced, “I mean, if you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to, I just--”

“Polya,” Gleb rolled his eyes, and moved his thumb on the picture to gesture to Polya’s solemn eight year old self, “I was seventeen, she was sixteen, and turned me down. It was right before I went to war.”

“Why,” Dmitry began, thought better of what he was about to say, and then continued after a pause, “Did she turn you down?”

“She wanted to hold out for true love,” Gleb said softly, “She said we wouldn’t be able to love each other the way we should be able to love each other as husband and wife, and she didn’t want someone who would take care of her.”

“...What’s the matter with being taken care of?” Dmitry said after a long moment, stuck staring at the photo. Gleb imagined he was scanning his memories of their department at Leningrad, trying to remember which girl might have looked like an aged-up version of the girl in the photograph.

“Polya is… independent,” Gleb said, “She said she needed someone she could boss around.” He chuckled quietly.

“She has glasses now,” he said, taking pity on Dmitry, “If you’re trying to remember her from Leningrad.”

Dmitry looked startled.

“Right,” he said after a pause, “Yes. Comrade Varankina. I just… isn’t the point of marriage that you take care of each other? Hell, it could be argued that… you look after  _ us _ , Gleb.”

“Well, when you and Anya get married, you’ll have to manage without me,” Gleb laughed mirthlessly.

“Hm,” Dmitry said, looking unconvinced, “Well. Dinner’s at five, don’t get too caught up in reminiscing.”

He waved the photo gently before setting it down.

“Be careful,” Gleb said quietly, “It’s the only one I have left of my family.”

The sharp angles of Dmitry softened at his worried tone and he smiled at Gleb. His dark eyes were gentle as he watched Gleb tuck the photo into one of his other suit jackets.

“Don’t worry,” he replied, his gaze lingering on Gleb’s hands, “I’d never dare damage that.”

* * *

Dinner was a blur. Anya could sense that something was off, given the twitchy way Dmitry laughed too loud at Gleb’s rather forced jokes, but she sat regardless and didn’t comment aside from the occasional sly glance at the two of them.

“You’re planning something, aren’t you,” she said to Gleb when Dmitry left to use the bathroom as dinner wound down.

“Planning something? Anya, _ krasivaya moya _ ,” Gleb laughed, acutely aware that it ought to be the last time he ever used the endearment, “If I was planning something, you would hopefully be unaware of it.”

Anya rolled her eyes.

“You’re a lot less subtle than you think you are, Gleb Vaganov,” Anya snorted, “Just tell me, is Dmitry’s plan completely crazy?”

Gleb took a sip of wine, swallowed hard, and forced a smile.

“I think it’s everything you’ve ever wanted,” he said, and that’s when Dmitry returned, a bottle of champagne in hand.

“Alright! Who’s ready for a nice stroll on the beach?” he asked, his grin wide and terrified. Gleb forced a smile, wrapped his arm around Anya’s shoulders, and led her out.

They were quiet once they reached the beach, the town’s chatter and light disappearing as the waves crashed against the sand. In the distance, the cliffs loomed. Their white faces had turned golden in the sunset, and the setting sun glowed a deep yellow-orange. Anya’s hair became a curled, frizzed halo around her head. The salty air seemed to choke Gleb’s throat, and he dropped his arm from Anya’s shoulders, almost shocked she’d let him hold her for so long. Anya’s hand brushed against his own, and she looked up at Gleb. 

“Something wrong?” she asked.

“Not at all,” he replied, staring at the cliffs.

“Well, I’m a bit cold without your arm around my shoulders,” Anya huffed, nudging him as if to tease him. The cliffs blurred in Gleb’s eyes, and he shrugged off his suit-jacket, feeling the cool sea breeze cut through his cotton shirt. It was cooler in Normandy than it was in Reims, and just as humid. He draped the warm jacket over Anya’s shoulders, then looked to Dmitry, who stared at them with an inscrutable expression on his face.

“I’m going up to the dunes,” Gleb said after a long moment, “Talk amongst yourselves, won’t you?”

“What--what do you mean?” Dmitry yelped, “I mean--”

“You have something to ask Anya, don’t you?” Gleb said, sliding past Anya and clapping Dmitry on the shoulder. He slid the champagne bottle from Dmitry’s suddenly weak grip with ease, and tucked his fingers under Dmitry’s chin, smiling slightly at the taller man’s wide-eyed confusion.

“Chin up,” he murmured under his breath, “She’ll say yes.”

“You have something to ask me?” Anya asked, sounding slightly breathless. Gleb turned back to look at her and smiled, gesturing for them to shoo before he jogged up to the dunes. He stood for one long, agonizing minute, watching the village lights going on in the distance, and turned in just enough time to watch Dmitry finally get down on one knee, far enough away that the waves drowned out the sounds of their voices. He watched as Anya’s hands flew to her mouth, nearly knocking Gleb’s jacket off her shoulders.

Dmitry offered the tiny box up to her, and Anya nodded eagerly, tackling Dmitry into the waves.

Gleb picked up the bottle of champagne, staring at it blankly as he twisted at the wires. It was ironic, somehow, that the label was the same as what Dmitry always purchased in Reims; almost like it was just another night. He pushed off the ground, waiting until he could hear laughter instead of that soft silence of kisses, and looked up to see Anya’s pale face glowing against Dmitry’s shoulder. Gleb plastered a smile on his face and popped the bottle of champagne with a bit of a flourish.

“You were right!” Dmitry cheered, soaked from his pants to his hair, face torn between glowing happiness and unvarnished relief, “She  _ did _ say yes!”

“I didn’t think you were planning  _ this! _ ” Anya laughed, exhilarated, and moved to throw her arms around Gleb. Dmitry followed on her heels, and within seconds, Gleb was surrounded by his damp, laughing best friends.

“I had nothing to do with it,” he said dryly, “Congratulations, you two, I know for a fact you’ll be happy together. Just don’t ask me to plan the wedding.”

“Well, I was thinking it’d be a long engagement anyways,” Dmitry said, and Anya paused, looking up at Dmitry consideringly. She smiled after a moment, seeing something in his face that she liked, and Gleb looked at Dmitry in order to avoid seeing Anya look at him that way.

“A long engagement,” she hummed, “I like that. I think we do have a lot to discuss, Dima.”

“Well, lovebirds, you can discuss all you want back at the hotel,” Gleb said firmly, wanting no part in whatever discussion Dmitry and Anya were going to have, “But we have champagne right here, so…”

“Here’s to us!” Dmitry beamed, champagne fizzing over his fingers as he staggered backwards on the wet sand, “To making a new life in France and succeeding beyond our wildest dreams! To Paris being the key to finding it all!”

“Home, love, family,” Anya said softly, her blue eyes shining as she turned, watching Dmitry and pressing her wet body into Gleb’s side, “I didn’t think I’d be so lucky as to find it once, but I did, when I found Nana. Now I’ve found it again.”

“Home, Reims; love, Dima; and family…” Gleb paused. He blushed.

“Yes, you idiot,” Anya snorted, “You’re ours. And don’t forget it.”

She leaned over to hug Gleb, and leaned up to kiss his cheek. She missed, and kissed the corner of his mouth instead.

“Things will change for the better,” she whispered as Gleb stood like a statue, shocked at being kissed, “I promise.”

“I believe it,” Gleb replied dumbly, even if it wasn’t quite the truth.

* * *

 

The rest of their time in Normandy had a sense of unreality to Gleb. It was as though the seaside town felt like dream he was just wandering through, broken every so often by the unholy, nightmarish glitter of Anya’s sparkling engagement ring. 

Yet in spite of the glittering spectre of the engagement and the persistent reminder that Anya and Dmitry would both be leaving him sooner rather than later, life went on as usual. Anya would drape Gleb’s jackets over her shoulders, citing a preference for his mint cologne in order to annoy Dmitry. Dmitry would take Gleb for crepe runs and coffee errands, citing the fact that Anya preferred tea anyways. Occasionally, one or the other would grab Gleb for a walk, making the excuse that they had to spend  _ some _ time apart or they’d kill each other before the wedding.

“Promise you won’t stop having dinner with us when we get back to Reims?” Anya asked plaintively as they walked down to the beach from their hotel on their last night in Normandy, a bottle of rosé in each hand.

“I’m going to have to keep you two alive until you learn to cook for yourselves, so yes,” Gleb replied dryly, “I can promise that much.”

“I think Nana wants to throw me a big wedding,” Anya confessed, “So it’s going to be a long engagement. But Gleb, you can’t imagine things will be all that different after Dima and I marry, right?”

“Well, you two will want to live alone, and--”

“Says who?” Dmitry scoffed, picking a spot on the sand and shaking a large tartan blanket out over the sand, “I’ve gotten rather used to our arrangement. And besides, d’you really think you want the house all to yourself if we move out? Or should we kick you out and make you get a tiny bachelor pad?”

Without waiting for Gleb to reply, he let out a derisive snort and continued, “I don’t think any of us want that option. Don’t be foolish. Three to an entire two-floor townhouse is far better than six to an apartment in Petersburg.”

He settled himself on the blanket, looking up at Anya and Gleb. Dmitry smiled.

“Come, sit,” he beckoned with a suddenly sunny smile. Anya immediately flopped next to him, arranging herself so she was sitting cross-legged on the tartan, and patted next to her.

“Sit by me, Gleb,” she called, “I’m cold.”

Gleb gave a very put-upon sigh, but hid his smile as he pulled off his suit jacket and draped it over Anya’s shoulders. She grinned at him, her long braid slung messily over her shoulder and undoubtedly shedding blonde strands onto his jacket.

“There you are,  _ krasivaya moya, _ ” he said, then immediately grimaced and looked out over the water. Dmitry took a gulp of wine right from the bottle, humming, and stared out over the ocean as well.

“Why the pout? It’s nice that I’m still considered pretty,” Anya teased, “And Dima doesn’t mind.”

Dmitry choked on his wine, and then turned to Gleb. “Oh, I mind,” he said, tone dangerously quiet.

“I--it’s a force of habit?” Gleb tried, “I’ll stop, I know what they say about me in the town--”

Gleb cringed, drawing his knees up to his chest like he was a boy closer to thirteen than to thirty.

“I know what they say about you in town,” Anya said sharply, “But that’s Reims and this is Normandy. We don’t need to discuss it yet.”

Dmitry looked at Anya for a long moment, eventually passing her the bottle of wine.

“People can think what they want,” he said softly, more to Anya than to Gleb, “We know the truth.”

“It’s just so- so  _ hard!” _ Anya burst out, taking a quick gulp of wine, “I don’t remember much of my childhood, but I remember my parents trying so,  _ so _ hard to shield us from the gossip. From everything. And I remember thinking, it isn’t fair, they don’t know what it’s like being us. And neither does anyone in Reims! They don’t  _ know! _ ”

Gleb sighed, shaking his head.

“It’s a different country. Different people, different customs,” Gleb said softly, “We’re used to twelve in a two-room apartment. Six, if we’re lucky. Here, we’re three people rattling around in a two-floor townhouse and that’s considered  _ normal. _ Or rather, it’d be normal if I wasn’t living with you.”

“I’m an Imperial Princess,” Anya muttered, “If they knew that, they’d think security was normal.”

“If they knew you were an Imperial Princess, things would be  _ very _ different,” Gleb reasoned, and took the bottle from Anya’s hands to take a long sip himself.

“It’s not fair,” Anya whispered, “I know plenty of Russian couples who used to take lovers.”

Gleb choked on his wine.

“I’m just saying!” Anya protested, as Dmitry reached over to thump a coughing Gleb on his back, “Are they so conservative over there that even that explanation is a bad one?”

“Yes,” Gleb rasped, blinking tears away from his eyes as he passed the bottle back to Dmitry, “They think that by calling me your friend, that we’re hiding something.”

“Hmph,” Anya huffed, “And I suppose if I ever have a child, they’ll be trying to pick your face out from the baby’s features, hm?”

It was Dmitry’s turn to choke on his wine, and Gleb reached over to rub his back with a look that tried his hardest to convey there were few subjects he would like to talk about less than this current one.

“I wouldn’t know,” Dmitry choked, “I’ve never been accused of having a lover before.”

“I’ve never been accused of fathering a child either,” Gleb said grimly, “I think we, um, ought to cross this particular bridge when we come to it.”

He took the bottle back from Dmitry, taking another long gulp, before passing it back to Anya.

“Good rosé, isn’t it,” Dmitry said, after a few minutes had passed.

“Yes, very,” Anya agreed.

They sat in silence, watching dusk fall and the tide roll out, and passing the bottle back and forth until the bottle was finished. Gleb’s hair curled in the salty breeze. He laid down, looking up. Venus was brightly shining by the moon.

“Gleb, you had the corkscrew, right?” Dmitry asked, sounding far away.

“It’s in the inside pocket of my jacket,” Gleb said, not moving. “Anya’s got it.”

Anya sighed, reaching in, and Gleb heard the rustle of paper.

“Be careful,” he said, feeling warm from the wine, “I think that’s the jacket I have a photo in.”

“Yes,” Anya said slowly, sounding slightly strangled, “It is. Gleb, I thought your father’s name was Sergey.”

“It was,” Gleb said, propping himself up on his elbows, “Why do you ask?”

“Because this… this…” Anya stammered, and Dmitry looked over, concerned.

“That’s Gleb and his parents,” he said succinctly, “Oh, and Polina, right? You were, what, eight in that photograph?”

“Nine,” Gleb supplied, “It was around my birthday.” He sat up, staring at the photo, when the thought sunk into his wine-soaked brain.

“You knew my father,” he said slowly, “Didn’t you?”

“...He said his name was Arkady,” Anya said slowly, “Or maybe I misheard it. I don’t think I properly introduced myself. Maybe he was speaking of an Arkady.”

“Arkady was Polina’s father’s name,” Gleb said quietly, his heart beating faster as he remembered that Anya had a favorite guard, apparently named Arkady, “He would have been stationed with the rest of them, had he lived. Papa used to say that when he parented Polya, he did everything Arkady would have done. She and I were so headstrong, we… it was a struggle, sometimes, to parent us.”

“You had a crush! On Tatiana!” Anya squawked, “If you were his son! And you are! I never… He always smiled, when I called him Arkady! I thought it was just because I remembered his name, but I must have never known it in the first place! I can’t believe you had a crush on Tanya!”

“I saw her through the fence once!” Gleb defended himself, wondering if he’d wandered into some alternate universe, “She was tall and graceful! And I was a teenager!”

“Your father told me about you! And Polya! Your favorite dessert was lemon cakes!” Anya breathed, “Lemons, I should have known. And Polya! I would have gotten along well with Polya! He told me! He…”

Anya grabbed Gleb’s hand.

“That night,” she breathed, “That night, I remember him.”

“Anya,” Dmitry said carefully, “You’re crushing the portrait.”

Anya looked down, smoothing out the photograph. Sergey Vaganov and Irina Vaganova smiled at each other, a hint of a smile played about Polina’s mouth, and Gleb stared earnestly out of the picture.

“I remember him,” she whispered, “I’ve seen this photo before. Not  _that_ night. I told him his son took after his mother in looks. He had brown-blond hair, streaked with grey.”

“I did,” Gleb said quietly, “Curls and all.”

Anya continued as though she hadn’t heard him. “There was blood on his face. He looked haunted. And he saw I was alive.”

Gleb felt his blood run cold.

“He had a coat,” she whispered, “He took mine off of me, and put this other one on. Helped me into it, really. He kept apologizing, I think. I don’t remember saying anything back, but he told me to lie still. I remember thinking it was a shame. It had a fox-fur collar, and I was so cold without it.”

Gleb thought about the foxes, his code with Polya. He’d never asked Polya where she’d gotten the idea from, but in the wake of that terrible night with the gunshots, he remembered a coat she’d worn.

“Deep burgundy wool,” Gleb said slowly, “With a fox-fur collar and a silk lining. He gave you Polya’s navy blue coat in return. I remember seeing it for the first time and praying that he hadn’t gotten the coat where I thought he’d gotten it.”

Polya had always seemed uneasy about wearing it. He had seen her in the evenings, mending it. She’d said it was cheap material, but Gleb had picked it up once and felt its heavy weight in his hands.

“He went out that night with coats,” Gleb said grimly, “He took our coats to make sure none of us left the house that night, but mine and Mama’s were brought back. Polya’s was the only one he didn’t bring back.”

“He saved me,” Anya whispered, “Or at least I think he did.”

“He might have been trying to save more of your family,” Gleb said slowly, “He took my mother’s coat, too. And a lighter one. One of her early autumn coats. Maybe for one of your sisters.”

“But they killed the rest of them,” Anya said, her voice breaking, “And he couldn’t. Save them.”

“He’s dead now,” Gleb said hesitantly, “I don’t think we’ll ever know. I’m sorry, Anya.”

“He took your coat too?” Anya asked, looking up at Gleb with wide, tearful, blue eyes.

“Yes.”

“For Alexei. For Lyosha, my little Lyosha,” she said, and began to cry.

“Anya!” Gleb and Dmitry exclaimed simultaneously, and wrapped their arms around her. She leaned into Gleb’s side, grabbing Dmitry’s hands as she cried into the front of Gleb’s shirt. They did their best to comfort her, Dmitry murmuring hushed endearments and Gleb stroking her hair. Gleb exchanged a helpless glance at Dmitry, who mouthed  _ keep doing that _ as he moved to stop petting her hair.

Gleb refused to think of the other reasons his father could have taken the coats--to keep his family from venturing out into the bitter cold, or to switch them out for better clothes like Polya’s. Yet he couldn’t think of any other reasons, other than the theory Anya postulated: that he wanted to stop a senseless murder, and save what he could in one desperate act.

His father must have known he couldn’t save an entire family, and perhaps had known that one bullet grazing the Tsarevich would have killed him anyways. Yet his father was a good man, one who had died of shame.

Perhaps the shame of leaving a teenage girl to die in the woods, clothed in only his surrogate daughter’s coat, undoubtedly in shock after seeing the rest of her family murdered in front of her. Perhaps that was what motivated his father to pick up that gun when the war was over.

“It’s okay, Anyushka,” Gleb whispered, “You’re here now. It’s all behind you now. You have Nana in Paris, and Dima, and…”

He looked to Dmitry for help.

“You have me, and you have Vlad and Lily, and you have Gleb,” Dmitry said firmly, “We’re here now.”

Anya lifted her head, and wiped the tears from her face, and looked at Dmitry and then at Gleb.

“Your father was a good man,” Anya said firmly, “But you’re better, Gleb. You’re better.”

And with that, she opened the second bottle of wine.

“Any objection to stopping in Paris for a night tomorrow?” she asked hopefully, and after that discussion neither Gleb nor Dmitry could object. Anya smiled, wiped her face once more, and passed the bottle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I thought I'd get this out before July, but then Jury Duty happened. Such is the price of democracy, I guess. 
> 
> Dmitry's original line in this chapter was:  
> “Why the pout? It’s nice that I’m still considered pretty,” Anya teased, “And Dima doesn’t mind.”
> 
> Dmitry choked on his wine, and then turned to Gleb. “Oh, I mind,” he said, tone dangerously quiet. "I mind that I don't have a nickname from Gleb too!"


	7. Let's Do It (Let's Fall In Love)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is hopeless until it isn’t. Gleb blushes a lot this chapter. Also, Polina Varankina sends the worst birthday gifts known to mankind.

The hotel Gleb stayed at was familiar, and a welcome balm on his soul as he pulled the car up to the awning. It felt like he had been away from it for years rather than months, yet the doorman stepped up to let him out of the car when he pulled up to the awning of the hotel.

“Monsieur Vaganov!” the doorman beamed, “So lovely to see you again. Will your friends be joining us this trip?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Gleb sighed, “They have found accomodation with Mademoiselle Malevsky’s family.”

Indeed, when he drove up to the townhouse that the Dowager Empress lived, with Countess Lily Malevsky in the atelier next door (most likely with Vladimir Popov), Anya and Dmitry got out with hopeful, eager expressions on their faces.

“We’ll hopefully have an invitation for dinner for you tonight,” Anya said before she exited the car, “I’ll ask for you at L’Hotel. And if we don’t call, just… come to the Neva Club!”

“Of course,” Gleb said with a smile. He waited until they entered the building, at which time the doorman stepped up to the car.

“There’s no parking for chauffeurs here,” he said snidely, “You’ll have to wait with the Lady’s car somewhere else.”

Stung, Gleb sat back in his seat. It was as though he was thrown back into May, straight into the feeling of being on the outside looking in.

“No need,” he snapped back, “Tell Mademoiselle Malevsky…”

He paused. _Tell Anya what?_

“Tell her she knows where to find me,” Gleb finally said, before putting the car in gear a bit more roughly than it deserved and speeding away down the Parisian streets.

L’Hotel was different. Gleb was known at the small hotel, and remembered fondly. Was it exorbitantly expensive? Yes. But the _commissaires_ paid well enough for a short stay, and it felt warm and cozy in the best kind of way. He even had the same room as the last time, and there was chocolate on the pillow. Gleb sank into the stuffed armchair in his room with a deep and abiding sigh of relief.

Paris was not a good place for a good and loyal Russian. The Neva Club was even worse. Still, after he had tasted Oscar Wilde’s favorite steak and grimly dressed in clothes Madame Richelieu had tailored for him, he hailed a cab nonetheless to the Left Bank and set out for the Neva Club, because Anya and Dmitry asked him to be there.

 _The things I do for love,_ Gleb thought grimly as he got out and made eye contact with the same doorman who had mocked his choice in suits a season before.

“Look who finally found a proper tailor,” the doorman crowed gleefully. Gleb fixed him with a blank, unimpressed stare.

“I’m here with Anya Malevskaya,” he said without inflection, “Varankin. My name should be on your list.”

The doorman frowned, his mouth twisting as he realized he wouldn’t get a rise out of Gleb.

“ _Gleb_ Varankin?” the doorman scoffed, “Hm. Terrible name to give a child.”

With that final parting insult, Gleb was allowed into the club and naturally, he went straight to the bar. He was two shots of vodka in when the Malevsky-Popov party was announced, and despite the Neva Club’s promises, Gleb was not nearly drunk enough to deal with Vlad Popov popping a bottle of champagne and yelling, “My two favorite children are engaged!”

The countess rolled her eyes, planting a lipsticked kiss on the cheeks of both “favorite children” before making her way over to the bar.

“I need a round of shots,” she said tartly, pressing a handful of francs across the bar to the bartender, “And _don’t_ water it down.”

 _That certainly explains why I’m not feeling any effects of drunkenness,_ Gleb thought grimly, watching as a few of the aristos congratulated Anya as Dmitry did his best to scrub the lipstick mark off his cheek. The young man sighed, looking around the bar, and his dark eyes met Gleb’s own.

Dmitry straightened up, blinking, and—and there was no other word for it— _dimpled._

Gleb gave a small toast with his shot glass, feeling his shoulders relax at that beautiful smile. Dmitry immediately gave Anya’s hand a squeeze and leaned down, whispering something in her ear. She nodded, smiling, and turned back to the aristos she was holding court over. Lily sighed, looking over at Gleb.

“I assume Dima knows you,” she drawled. Gleb startled, surprised at being addressed.

“He wouldn’t be smiling like that if he didn’t know you,” Lily continued, “Let me guess: you’re the mysterious Russian roommate, Gleb Sergeyevich Varankin.”

It was strange, hearing someone who wasn’t Anya, Dima, or Madame Richelieu address him with that particular name in Russian. Gleb nodded slowly.

“ _Da_ ,” he said slowly, drawing out the long _ah_ sound. “That’s me.”

“No wonder he speaks of you so much,” she commented, “You’re quite a looker. You’d be even more handsome if you let your hair out of that pomade you keep it in. Curls, I imagine, would suit your face quite well.”

Gleb blinked.

“I, I suppose so?” he tried, “Thank you?”

“Lily, don’t scare Gleb too much,” Dmitry sighed, making a timely entrance, “I’d like to keep him around. Wait, Gleb’ka, what’s she been telling you?”

Gleb laughed slightly, shaking his head.

“Nothing of import,” he soothed, “Just that I’d look better with curls than keeping my hair slicked back.”

Dmitry’s expression went a bit dreamy for a moment, and Gleb wondered what he was thinking of—certainly not himself with curly hair.

“Quit embarrassing yourself and have a drink, Dima,” Lily barked, rolling her eyes, “You too, Gleb Sergeyevich.”

Gleb made an aborted gesture to signal the bartender, but Lily sighed, grabbing a couple shots off the tray that another server produced and handing one to Gleb.

“Please,” she said, “Just drink it with Dima and put us all out of our misery. Oh, for God’s sake, I have to go rescue those two.”

She gestured vaguely to Vlad and Anya, both of whom looked somewhat overwhelmed by the sudden crush of people, and Dmitry turned to Gleb expectantly.

“Well, have a drink with me, will you?” Dmitry said, “Welcome to the Neva Club. Or welcome back, I guess I should say. But I imagine this is the first time you’ve been here _properly,_ since last time you were just outside skulking around.”

“Mm,” Gleb sighed, watching as Lily swept Vlad into a dance, and another young man asked Anya, “It feels the same, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like I’m on the outside looking in,” Gleb sighed, and took the shot of vodka in one gulp.

Dmitry frowned, plucking the glass from Gleb’s hands when he swallowed.

“You’re here with us,” he said gently, “Anya is working her Nana over, I swear. The old bat barely tolerates me, let alone some random Russian from off the streets-”

“I don’t care about her grandmother,” Gleb said harshly, then sighed. “It still stings, sometimes. Thinking of how the old woman was able to flee when we suffered during the War.”

“By _we_ , you mean the Proletariat at large?” Dmitry sighed, sounding as though he was bracing for another Red Russians Versus White Russians Debate.

“I mean my family,” Gleb finally broke, “The dowager was here in Paris during the war, living it up, while my mother and sister were resorting to catching cats and eating them. My mother tried to sell her jewelry at one point, but no one would take it, because what good was gold if you couldn’t eat it?” Staring at the Russians whirling around the room felt vaguely nausea-inducing. Gleb wondered if it was the straight vodka after months of wine.

“...oh,” Dmitry sighed, “I see. The Proletariat has been you the entire time.”

Gleb blinked, watching Dmitry down his own glass, before the other man wrapped his arm around Gleb’s waist and leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” he murmured, as Gleb tried to pay attention in spite of how close Dmitry had gotten, “I resent the dowager for that too. I think I’ve eaten far more cats than you have, Gleb’ka.”

As Gleb stared at him in fascination, Dmitry continued. “While you were on army rations, Vlad and I were trying to survive on the streets of Petersburg. It wasn’t easy. But we made it out. And I don’t have to love every single decision that Anya’s beloved Nana has made to recognize that she’s Anya’s beloved Nana. Right?”

“Right,” Gleb said, trying to take in the new information.

“And while you’re processing that,” Dmitry grinned, “We are going to dance.”

Before Gleb could even think, Dmitry released his grip on Gleb’s hand and dragged him out to the dance floor.

“What— Dima— I can’t dance!” Gleb protested, “I don’t, I don’t _Charleston_ , or whatever this is—”

“Foxtrot!” Dmitry laughed, “Come on, just follow my lead!”

Clumsily, Gleb made the attempt, trying to pay attention to the rhythm of the music and the rapid shuffle of Dmitry’s feet.

“Won’t there be a scandal?” he tried, “Two men dancing together? This isn’t Berlin, after all-”

“I’m engaged,” Dmitry snorted, “Vlad just announced it. We’re fine.”

“I’m flyin’ high, but I’ve got a feelin’ I’m fallin’, fallin’ for nobody else but you,” the singer sang. Gleb felt his cheeks heat, but tried to blame it on exertion. Dmitry grabbed his hand and spun him out, then back in again, pulling him close to his chest.

“Shouldn’t I be leading, Dima?” Gleb said faintly, close enough to smell the sandalwood of Dmitry’s cologne.

Dmitry smiled slowly. The dimple returned to his cheek.

“I’d follow you into battle, Gleb, but you couldn’t lead me out of a paper bag when it comes to matters of the heart,” Dmitry murmured.

“You caught my eye, baby, that’s why, show me the ring and boy, I’ll take it from you,” the singer crooned.

“Who said anything about matters of the heart?” Gleb said shakily.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dmitry said archly, “Dancing is all about matters of the heart.”

“May I cut in?” came a voice from their side, and Gleb and Dmitry both turned to face Anya, who was glittering in a beaded gold dress and beaming at the pair of them.

“By all means, Dmitry was just-”

“Teaching him not to step on your feet,” Dmitry finished with a wink, stepping back and disappearing into the crowd, “Good luck leading, Gleb’ka!”

Gleb stared at Anya helplessly, feeling more adrift and confused than ever.

“I hope you weren’t hoping to dance with him,” he said, as the music changed over to another peppy song.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Anya soothed, molding herself easily into Gleb’s arms and easily beginning to move to the beat. Gleb sighed, hearing the familiar strains of _Do Something!_ and moving his feet to the beat. This much, he could do.

“I wanted to dance with you,” she murmured as Gleb led them slowly into a more crowded part of the dance floor. Countess Lily watched from the side, an amused smile on her deep red lips. Dmitry watched them fondly, and gave Gleb a little wave. Vlad Popov studied him cautiously. Gleb turned his attention back to Anya.

“Why me? You have a fiance to dance with now,” he said softly.

“Just because I’m going to marry Dima doesn’t mean I can’t dance with you,” Anya sighed, running her hand over Gleb’s hair, “Lily was right. You do look dashing with curls. You ought to wear your hair like that. I, well, we wouldn’t be able to keep the girls off you.”

“When have you seen me with curls?” Gleb tried, more off balance than ever, and wondered what was in the vodka, “And why would you prefer dancing with me over dancing with Dima?”

“Dancing is no time for talking, Gleb,” Anya groaned, “But we share a bathroom. Of course I’ve seen you with curls. And Gleb, really, I can’t believe you’re so dense.”

“Dense?”

“Dima and I _both_ want to dance with you,” Anya said, a small smile playing about her lips, “We agree on that. As long as you want to dance with us, too.”

* * *

Looking back at that trip to Paris, no matter how hard he tried or how many cups of coffee he had at L’Hotel in the mornings, Gleb still could never make heads or tails of what he spoke about with Anya and Dima. The profound feeling that he had missed something nagged at him all the way back to Reims. Eventually, he stopped trying, as the summer began to give way to the next season.

Autumn rolled into Reims slowly, with the light fading gracefully a little earlier each day and color creeping into the leaves. Trucks rolled through the city, filled less with bottles clanking and more with casks filled with red wines and rich purple grapes. Madame Morceau dragged their little block to a winery out in the countryside one weekend, and Anya watched as Gleb and Dmitry got tipsy on merlot. After that, Dmitry made a game of annoying Gleb by guessing whether the grapes or wine casks were merlot, or cabernet sauvignon, or some kind of unholy mix of the two.

“I actually think that one’s carrying rosé,” Gleb said dryly. Dmitry turned upon him, eyes wide and betrayed.

“Gleb!” he hissed, “There’s no way! It’s the season of the reds!”

“I think you’re right,” Anya teased, “Gleb’s birthday is coming up, isn’t it?”

“I think it’s just generally wine harvesting season,” Gleb said before Anya’s words caught up with him. He blushed.

“That’s right, it _is_ the season of the reds,” Dmitry laughed, “You said your birthday was in October, wasn’t it?”

“October 7th,” Anya recalled, “Yes. Not a lot of time you’ve left us to plan your party, Gleb.”

“I don’t need a party!” Gleb tried, aware that he was fighting a losing battle and yet gearing up to fight nonetheless.

They bickered from the market all the way back to the townhouse, where Madame Richelieu was waiting and had unlocked the door for them. She raised a blonde eyebrow at the trio, her eyes catching where Dmitry’s hand rested on Gleb’s waist and Anya’s head settled on Gleb’s shoulder as he had tried to find their keys in his coat pockets.

“ _Mes chéris_ ,” she began, before Anya and Dmitry sprung into action, abandoning Gleb in favor of grabbing Madame Richelieu.

“Madame Veronique, please,” Anya began, “You must tell Gleb that we _have_ to host a party for his birthday.”

“We can’t _not_ have a party for Gleb’s birthday,” Dmitry complained, “He so rarely lets us spoil him, and he does so much!”

This the younger man added, giving Gleb a soft look from beneath his dark eyelashes. Gleb blushed.

“I’ve never really had a grand party for my birthday,” he tried, “Really.”

This was the wrong thing to say, because Madame Richelieu gasped, making a _tsk-tsk_ noise and shaking her head.

“No grand parties?” she huffed, “And how old will you be turning?”

“Twenty-nine,” Gleb said hesitantly.

“Hmf,” Madame Richelieu scoffed, “Still. Your last year of your twenties. That merits a celebration!”

“So you’ll help us plan it, Madame Veronique?” Anya said slyly, giving Gleb a triumphant look over her shoulder. Gleb’s blush only deepened.

“But of course, _mes chéris,_ ” Madame Richelieu smirked, “Leave it all to me.”

Of course, leaving it all to Madame Richelieu meant that October 7th, Gleb was sent on fool’s errands all day, crossing back and forth Reims, and Jacques Brodeur met him at the door with a smile.

“They’re doing something for me, aren’t they?” he asked Jacques with a resigned sigh.

“I will neither confirm nor deny,” Jacques said loftily, but his bright eyes and the way he tried to hide his smile gave him away.

“I told them that I never did anything much for my birthday,” and Jacques laughed, shaking his head.

“That was your mistake, Varankin,” he said, nudging Gleb in the side, “When you say something like that, women have no choice _but_ to throw you a grand party.”

Gleb groaned, but defeatedly let Jacques lead him through the streets of Reims back to his own apartment. Jacques rang the doorbell twice, but let Gleb unlock the door anyways, whistling Cole Porter cheerfully.

“Birds do it, bees do it,” he sang in what Gleb assumed to be rather terrible English, “Even educated fleas do it, let’s do it, let’s fall in love-”

“Why are you _singing,_ ” Gleb began, but then Jacques opened the door.

“ _HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”_ yelled what felt like half of Reims from his living room as they threw confetti in his face. Clearly, Jacques' singing was their cue to ready the confetti.

Gleb took a step back. There was Inspector Romilly, there were his colleagues from the commissariat, there was Madame Richelieu and _Pierre Bloody Herschel!_ There was Madame Morceau and Sophie, and there were Anya and Dmitry in the center of it all, holding bottles of champagne while wearing matching beaming smiles.

“You,” Gleb began, and then started to laugh, “You didn’t have to do all this!”

“But are you happy?” Madame Richelieu asked knowingly.

“I am _so_ happy,” Gleb laughed, and stepped forwards to spin her around in a hug. The room erupted into happy cheers.

Champagne was pressed into Gleb’s hand by a familiar delicate hand, and Gleb looked down to find Anya at his side, her blue eyes alight with mischief.

“Aren’t you glad I convinced Veronika to do this?” she whispered in Russian.

“You win,” Gleb said fondly, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. She squeaked, and Dmitry appeared at her side.

“No kiss for me?” he teased, and Gleb laughed again, meeting his eyes.

“Why, do you want one, Dima?” he teased back, and Dmitry let out a bark of laughter.

“Wouldn’t mind,” he replied, but Madame Morceau tugged him away.

“Come, come,” she said, “there’s food, and gifts, and all the champagne you could ask for!”

Indeed, their living room was decked in streamers, confetti, tinsel, flowers, and their tables were laden with an unfathomable amount of food. His coworkers all came by to wish him well, and as the evening wore on, he was presented with bites of desserts each laden with more sugar than he would have gotten in a year in Russia, usually by Anya or Dmitry. He savored every bite.

Once desserts were mostly finished, the gifting began. Gleb protested.

Weakly.

Madame Morceau and Sophie went first, presenting him with a set of leather gloves from Paris before they departed, Sophie leaving a lipsticked kiss against his cheek and whispering for him to come back to Paris more. His coworkers presented him with a handsome new watch that they had all chipped in for, and received a healthy discount from Monsieur Revardy, who left soon after with a wink and an admonition for Dmitry to not come to work too hungover the next morning. Madame Richelieu presented him with a new suit in a handsome deep green, one that she said would bring out his eyes.

“All it wants for is tailoring to your figure, my dear,” she whispered, and Gleb smiled up at her.

“It’s perfect,” he assured her.

Anya’s gift was simpler, but still brought Gleb nearly to tears when he opened her package to find that the worn family portrait he kept in his jacket had been framed.

“You can’t keep carrying it around with you,” she counseled, but let Gleb hug her tightly and kiss her cheek. Dmitry’s gift was equally precious-a set of cufflinks, somehow sourced from a jeweler across from the Bolshoi Theatre back in Moscow.

“So you’ll always have a bit of home with you,” he said gently.

Just for that, Gleb also kissed his cheek, much to the laughter of his friends.

“And finally, we have a package that came here _all the way_ from Petersburg,” Madame Richelieu announced with a flourish. With great ceremony, Gleb was handed a parcel wrapped in brown paper and twine. It felt heavy, and was shallow enough that it made Gleb wonder what was in it—a special order suit from Leningrad? His old uniform? He looked to the handwriting, its Cyrillic messy and Latinate letters carefully rounded, and felt his heart skip several beats.

**_Глеб Аркадьевич Варанкин_ **

**_Реймс, Франция_ **

_Gleb Arkadievich Varankin_

_Rue Thiers and Rue Salin_

_Reims, France_

“Do you know who it’s from?” Anya asked eagerly, watching as Gleb grinned at the package.

“It’s from Polya,” he said, unable to keep from smiling, “My sister.”

The room erupted in giddy chatter. As a small part of him worried at the expense she must have incurred in sending the package, Gleb tore it open, finding a familiar box from the State Department Store. He laughed, the Cyrillic embossing painfully familiar, and opened the box.

Inside was a coat made of deep burgundy wool, with silk lining. The familiar orange fox fur collar was gone, replaced by a nearly-whole silver-grey fox, it’s glass eyes artfully staring up at him.

Gleb froze.

Beneath his uniform, his skin crawled with a sudden, unwelcome cold sweat. He was certain his face had gone straight past white and into grey.

“Handsome coat for a man,” Romilly remarked, before Jacques Brodeur took a closer look at Gleb.

“I say,” Jacques said, concerned, one hand on his cigarette box, “Are you quite alright, Gleb?”

Gleb couldn’t find the words, staring at the coat, at the glass eyes of the fox.

“That’s my old coat,” Anya said in Russian, her own voice sounding choked, “That’s my coat, from when—”

Gleb stood up from his seat, the box falling to the floor in his haste. He shook the coat out, the familiar weight unwelcome in his hands. This was the coat Polya always was uncomfortable to wear, looking hunted whenever she put it on. He hadn’t seen it since they left Yekaterinburg for Leningrad. He thought she’d abandoned it somewhere.

“Gleb, there’s— a letter,” Dmitry stammered, as a cream colored note fell from inside the folds of the coat.

Gleb gestured for him to pick it up with a jerky incline of his head, trying not to hyperventilate at the sight of the coat. There were stitches along the breast of the coat, darned by Gleb’s mother. There were several of those stitches, across the front and the princess seams, all in the same cranberry thread, all roughly the size of bullet holes.

Madame Richelieu bent for the note, watching Dmitry brace a shaken Anya.

“What does it say?” Anya asked shakily, and Madame Richelieu read it out, her brow furrowed in confusion.

“It says… this makes no sense,” she said, but continued, “ _It’s hunting season already, my darling little fox. Here’s a little something to remind you to keep warm when we’re out on the chase.”_

Gleb collapsed back into the chair, one hand moving to his mouth as he struggled to breathe. He loosened his collar in vain, his head dipping between his legs. For his efforts, he got a mouthful of the coat, the coat that still smelled like their apartment in Leningrad and his mother’s perfume. The scent choked him, and he thrust it to the side, trembling.

“Gleb!” several voices exclaimed at once. Anya’s voice was not among them.

“What’s happened?” Romilly could be heard exclaiming in French, while Laurent Saint-Just tried to shush him.

“They’re coming for me,” Gleb finally forced out, lifting his head. Madame Richelieu and Pierre Herschel went white. Anya looked as though she was ready to faint. Dmitry looked ready to kill. Their French colleagues looked… confused, and Gleb tried to move his numb tongue over the vowels and consonants of French.

“They’re coming for me. The Cheka. The secret police. My old colleagues,” he finally managed, watching the looks of the _commisaires_ shift from confusion to horror, “Polya, my Polya, my sister, she- she sent me this as a warning. It’s hunting season, and they’re hunting _me.”_

* * *

Chaos reigned for a good minute after this explanation, with exclamations in French, Russian, and Yiddish drowning out even the white noise in Gleb’s head. There was a hand on his cheek after an indeterminable moment, and brandy wafted beneath his nose.

“Drink,” Pierre Herschel said, his voice soft and yet firm. Gleb, reminded painfully of his favorite Captain in the war, drank, focusing on the burn as it made its way down his throat.

“They’re coming for me,” Gleb said softly, “You were right about me. You were right. Russia’s no good. Never has been, probably never will be. I was naive.”

“A bit of hope is good for officers of the law to keep,” Pierre said sternly, “Why do you think Romilly has this bunch of idiot idealists?”

Gleb laughed, fully aware of the edge of hysteria in his voice.

“Get the idealists away from me, then. I don’t want anyone trying to save me and becoming collateral damage,” he said, “You must know. You left-”

“And I got my family out,” Pierre continued in that same no-nonsense tone, “Don’t be an idiot, Varankin. They can’t kill us all to get to you.”

“They can _try,_ ” Gleb whined, “Please, go, I—”

“ _Don’t be an_ idiot, _Varankin,”_ Pierre stood and said in French, loud enough that the entire room fell silent, “Of course we’re going to protect you. We take care of our own.”

Gleb looked up at him, at the man he would have sworn held nothing but dislike for him. Romilly had straightened, looking more like a determined Gorlinsky than he had ever thought the grandfatherly leader ever could. His colleagues were nodding to each other, solemn but determined. Madame Richelieu looked at him the way he remembered his mother looking. And Anya and Dmitry…

Anya was pressed against Dmitry’s side, her face pale and drawn, but she tilted her chin up as he met her eyes.

Dmitry nodded.

“Alright, everyone,” he said, looking at the _commissaires,_ “Gleb, that includes you. We’ve got some planning to do.”

Hours later, the apartment was eerily quiet. The _commissaires_ had filed out around three in the morning, and Madame Richelieu departed in order to get some decent shuteye. They had all promised to reconvene at the commissariat in the morning, when they were sufficiently rested. Gleb sat at the table, staring at the crumbs left over from the fig clafoutis and apple-pear gallettes that his friends had made and brought for his birthday.

“You should get some rest,” Anya said softly.

“I can’t sleep,” Gleb replied, swallowing hard as his thoughts swirled around his head, “You and Dima should, though, especially if you want to catch the early train.”

“The early train to where?” Dmitry snorted, “Gleb. What kind of friends do you think we are, what kind of _people_ do you think we are, to leave you at the first sign of trouble? We’re staying right here.”

“I,” Gleb began, then stood, bracing himself against the table so he could look Anya and Dmitry in the eyes in turn.

“I want you two safe,” he said, exhausted. “I just want you safe.”

 _You’re going to break your own heart_ , Polina Arkadievna whispered. Gleb thought of the Seine. Gleb thought of the pistol he used to conceal in his coat back in Leningrad. Gleb thought of the bright, wild smile of Mikhail Petrovich and his smoking gun on the train, an aristo dead at his feet. Gleb thought of Fedya, bleeding out into the Polish mud.

Gleb thought of the Seine, and of jumping in, and of a slow death watching Anya and Dmitry fall more in love with each other by the day.

“And we want you safe,” Anya breathed, “Please, Gleb. Don’t make us leave you.”

“Don’t you understand?” Gleb snapped, “I can’t stand to see either of you caught in the crossfire!”

“Gleb’ka,” Dmitry tried, but Gleb cut him off.

“I can’t stand to see either of you die because _I’m in love with you two!_ ” He shouted, nerves frayed, voice hoarse, “And I know, I _know_ you’re in love with each other and there’s no room for me here, so I want you two to go to Paris. I want you safe, and I want you to be able to live a long, happy life together, and if I have to let Polina Arkadievna execute me with her pistol, then I’ll fucking let her, because at least my little sister will grant me a quick death! She already saw what happened to our father!”

He'd said too much. Gleb pressed his hand to his mouth, trying to swallow down bile.

“Gleb,” Anya choked out, but Dmitry shook his head. He took two steps forward, compensating as Gleb took a step back.

His hands were shaking, Gleb knew, almost as badly as they had been when he pointed his gun at Anya all those months ago. All the courage had been burned out of him during that speech.

“No one will be executed,” Dmitry said softly, but there was a tremor in his voice as well, “You’re not going to die. I won’t have it.”

“You won’t have it?” Gleb snapped weakly. “Did you not hear what I just said? I’m in _love_ with you, Dima. Not _just_ Anya, you as well. I’m sure it comes as a surprise-”

“A surprise? Oh, Deputy Commissioner Vaganov,” Dmitry sneered, “You haven’t been paying attention.”

And with those words, Dmitry placed one hand solidly on Gleb’s waist and kissed him.

The first thing Gleb noticed was that he didn’t have to dip his head, because Dmitry was actually of equal height. The second thing he noticed was that Dmitry’s other hand had found its way to his cheek. The third thing he noticed was that Dmitry was a pretty good kisser.

The fourth thing his rather frazzled brain realized was that Dmitry was _kissing him_.

A slightly hysterical giggle from the background forced them apart. Anya was standing at the kitchen table, laughing at the two of them.

“Anya,” Dmitry said, and she shook her head, closing the distance between herself and her boys in a few steps. She folded herself into Gleb’s arms with the same ease as she had the night of the Neva Club.

“I can’t believe that out of the two of us, you kissed him first, Dima,” she taunted Dmitry as she twined her fingers into Gleb’s hair and pulled him down to her level for a kiss.

This— _this—_ was what he’d been dreaming of since the first time he saw a street sweeper dive into the street after hearing a truck backfire. This was what he’d thought of when sipping lemon tea in his office, this was what he thought of when he saw her in a red dress and a tiara, this was what he thought of when he saw her on the beach and in their kitchen and drinking coffee in the mornings. She tasted of coffee and of sugar on pastry and of everything he wanted.

Anya smiled against his lips. Gleb’s hand hesitantly settled on her waist, as though she was a dream that would, as usual, dissipate the moment he touched her.

“You love us,” she whispered, her forehead pressed to his, one hand tangled in his hair to keep him down at her level, “And it’s a damn good thing, Gleb Vaganov, because we love you too.”

“I can’t let anything happen to you,” he whispered back, “Either of you. Please, Anya. Dima.”

He looked to Dmitry, holding his hand out, and felt the other man immediately wrap his arm comfortingly around his waist. With his free hand, Dmitry took Gleb’s own and kissed his knuckles in a way that forced Gleb to laugh. Dmitry smiled, his mission clearly accomplished.

“We’re not leaving,” Dima said, “We’re staying right here with you, Gleb. Right here with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're welcome.
> 
> Also, um, it’s been a year (and four days) since this fic was published? This fandom has been so welcoming and great as a whole, and I wouldn’t have gotten this far without you guys. Thanks for sticking with me.


	8. interlude.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no one, not even the rain, has such small hands.
> 
> in other words: Polina.

“Polyush’ka,” Uncle Sergey said, his voice scratchy and exhausted as he stood at the foot of the stairs. Aunt Irina’s hand was warm and steady on her back, a comfort through the layers of Polina’s robe and nightgown. Gleb held the candle, the flame flickering according to the tremble of his hands.

“Papa,” he said urgently, “I heard—we heard—”

_Gunshots. Screaming. Trucks driving and backfiring and screeching away._

Uncle Sergey shook his head slowly, closing his blue eyes. He swayed at the foot of the stairs, swallowing hard. Aunt Irina pushed past Polina, her own dressing gown belted tight around her waist. Her dark curls were unbound, and she guided her husband into the safety and warmth of their home. Uncle Sergey stumbled on his feet, nearly falling into Aunt Irina’s arms.

“Seryozha,” she said gently, “Please, it’s dawn. Come. Get some rest.”

“I will,” Uncle Sergey replied, “I will.”

“Papa, you’re… alright, aren’t you?” Gleb asked hesitantly. Polina looked back, watching the light flicker over his face. His constant dark circles were erased. In his white nightshirt, the one he dubbed “the cleanest thing he’d worn since arriving home from training,” he looked painfully young and innocent.

“...I will be fine,” Uncle Sergey said grimly.

“What happened?” Gleb tried, taking a few steps down the stairs. Aunt Irina turned, her lips pressed so tightly together they appeared almost white. Uncle Sergey shook his head once more.

“Don’t ask, Gleb’ka. Don’t. There is no story to tell. Go back to sleep,” he said, sounding somehow more exhausted. The light flickered over his uniform. Polina could see speckles and splashes of darkness on the olive green. Her stomach turned uncomfortably.

“Come, Gleb,” Polina entreated, taking a couple steps down next to him. “Give Aunt Irina the candle, and let’s go back to sleep.”

As if in a dream or a nightmare, Gleb obeyed, looking just as sick and horrified as Polina knew herself to be. Aunt Irina took the candle, and Gleb turned back, looking at Polina with those dark, beautiful eyes.

“Polyush’ka,” Uncle Sergey said again, and Polina froze, dragging her eyes away from Gleb’s pale face.

“I lost your blue coat,” he said, “I’m sorry. But I brought you a better one.”

He held it up. Gleb’s coat and Aunt Irina’s coat were still there, tossed carelessly onto the bench in the front hall. But on his arm was a new coat, a lady’s coat, princess-seamed, in the same deep red color as the splashes on Uncle Sergey’s uniform. It had some kind of a fur collar, and looked terribly warm. There were slashes on the front of it, revealing some sort of odd, lumpy lining.

In any other situation, Polina would have wanted that coat with her entire being. Had she seen it in a store window, she would have scraped and saved for months to be able to afford it. Now...

Polina felt her stomach churn, and grasped the bannister for support..

_Gunshots. Screaming. The princesses. The Romanovs._

“I’ll mend it in the morning,” Polina choked out, and then, because politeness was the the only thing she could cling to in the face of being presented with a dead woman’s coat, a coat some Imperial Princess had died in, _oh God would there be matted blood on the collar, on the inside of the coat, matted blood in the seams_ , she said:

“Thank you, Uncle Sergey, for thinking of me.”

“Think of you,” Uncle Sergey repeated, before making a sound halfway between a laugh and a choking cough. “My darling, I’ve thought of— I thought—“

He couldn’t finish whatever joke he had tried to begin, and fell to his knees on the stairs. As their little family rushed around him, Polina’s Uncle Sergey fell into quiet weeping with the burgundy coat still clutched in his arms.  _I've thought of nothing but you all night_  was what Polina thought he might have said, given that he was there shooting other little girls the same age as she was, and there was nothing funny about that.

* * *

Polina hated that coat, the one initialed with a tiny embroidered A that was nearly invisible under the fox-fur collar.

But she kept the coat with her, because when she was mending it with Aunt Irina in the evenings, in front of the fire in the only warm room in their house, she found the jewels.

“Aunt Irina,” she said, when her needle struck against something hard, “I think something’s... _in_ the coat.”

Aunt Irina frowned, setting aside her knitting.

“Something inside the coat? Like what?” she asked, looking warily at the doors and windows. She dragged Polina uncomfortably close to the fire, where the cracking and popping was louder than her voice.

“We may have to burn it,” Polina whispered, as Aunt Irina took out her seam ripper. She took the coat from Polina’s hands, reaching inside the lining, and ripped the seam.

In the light of the fire, a ruby gleamed like blood. Irina and Polina gasped at the same time, shuddering at the realization of what happened.

“Oh God,” Aunt Irina whispered, and Polina knew they were thinking the same thing: that this was why the screaming that night went on for so long, that this was why the coat had holes and no blood in the body, that this was why Aunt Irina had detached the fur collar to clean it and refused to let Polina touch it.

It was at that horrifying moment that they both realized the exact way the Imperial Princesses must have died: with bullets to their skulls, because every strange lump in this coat would be a jewel that deflected the bullets Sergey Vaganov and his compatriots were shooting at them.

“Mend the coat, Polina Arkadievna,” Aunt Irina said with finality after the moment had been stretched thin with their horror and disbelief, “And don’t speak of it again.”

Polina thought of Gleb, freezing in the wet mud of Galicia and being shot at.

“Gleb’s uniform coat,” Polina began, thinking about taking the jewels out and adding a lining to Gleb’s military jacket, but Aunt Irina shook her head.

“No, my darling girl,” she said sadly, “Gleb is on his own.”

 _What good is this cursed coat, then,_ Polina thought viciously, _if it didn’t save Princess Anastasia and it’s not going to save my brother, how can I expect it to save me?_

 

* * *

 

She kept it in a box when they moved to Petrograd a few years later, only wearing it in the dead of winter when it was cold enough to warrant the fox-fur collar. In order to keep it from becoming musty, Aunt Irina would spritz it occasionally with her own perfume. She hid it under giant blanket-scarves, making sure no one believed her wealthy enough to own fur. Most of the time, it stayed in its box, Polina avoiding even thinking about it, and it stayed there as she and Gleb were given Cheka uniforms and wore those to tatters instead.

The exception was Aunt Irina’s funeral. In the cold, wet April, she wrapped the blood-cranberry fabric around herself, trying to feel Aunt Irina’s work in the stitches.

She expected Gleb to flinch, but he barely saw anything that day, aside from the box that contained his mother being lowered slowly into the ground.

The next day, he stepped out of the bathroom with his hair slicked back with pomade, and Polina realized the difference between them: she was there, trying her hardest to stay close to Aunt Irina through every blouse and skirt and even the cursed coat that she and Aunt Irina mended, and Gleb, Gleb who had Aunt Irina’s wine-dark eyes and jet black curls, was trying to distance himself from her.

They had a screaming match over it that night.

“I am my father’s son!” he yelled, “And it’s time to focus on my father’s work and not—not—”

Polina caught him as he sank to the ground in tears, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.

“And you are your mother’s son as well,” she whispered, remembering the way Aunt Irina held her hand as they buried her mother, barely remembering her own father’s smile except for the way she saw it in the mirror, “You have her heart, you love like she did. Don’t bury her in your heart as well.”

“Why are we the only ones left, Polya?” Gleb whispered, “How did that happen?”

 _Orphans twice over,_  Polina thought, but shook her head. Gleb buried his face in her shoulder, and they both breathed in the scent of Irina Vaganova’s perfume.

* * *

 

“Comrade Varankina,” General Gorlinsky said with a sigh, “I want to commend you.”

Polina stiffened, immediately on her guard.

“Thank you, comrade,” she replied evenly, “But my work is in the service of Russia, and I am proud to serve without thanks.”

“Ah, but it’s admirable, the way you cast off your former… what was it, that Commissioner Vaganov was to you?” Gorlinsky said with an oily smile, “Brother or lover? No one was ever quite sure.”

“His parents raised me,” Polina spit out, “And it was a blessing neither lived to see their son become the _traitor_ he did.”

Gorlinsky shifted uncomfortably in his seat the way atheist sheepishly attending church might shift when confronted with a zealous true believer. Polina could forgive the man for not knowing what Gleb was to her. It had become common knowledge that when Gleb Vaganov failed to return from France, no matter what he was to her, all of the light and laughter had gone out of Polina Varankina’s life.

“Yes, well,” Gorlinsky muttered, licking his lips nervously for a moment before he regained his bearings, “You’re a credit to the Vaganovs nonetheless. Gleb, for all his faults, still chose well in making you his right hand woman.”

Polina did not smile, merely tilting her chin up proudly and looking down at Gorlinsky from behind her glasses.

“Thank you, comrade,” she replied, shifting her feet and glancing at the door, “If that’s all, I—“

“No, no, Comrade Varankina,” Gorlinsky cut her off, “I have a point to praising your loyalty. See, we’ve gotten reports of your dear foster brother. Or someone we think might be your dear foster brother. In France.”

Polina felt her stomach clench with anxiety.

“Really,” she said. It was not a question.

“Yes, my dear comrade,” Gorlinsky said, pausing for effect, “You see, a man has just passed his exams for the commissariat in the city of Reims, and it was printed in a Parisian newspaper. One of our operatives recognized the name by chance.”

 _Reims._ Polina began to feel vaguely ill.

“That name, of course, was Gleb Varankin.”

Polina took a deep breath, shoving down her nausea.

“While this could be a coincidence,” Gorlinsky said airily, “And there could just be some Russian named Varankin working at that commissariat, somehow I doubt it.”

“I’m not certain how you want me to proceed, sir,” Polina said, hoping she hadn’t paled. One of the few advantages of being a natural redhead meant that she usually looked paperwhite to begin with, and she did her best to trust in that fact.

“Why, I’m sending you to France, comrade!” Gorlinsky beamed. It was not a pleasant expression. Rather, it reminded her of a cat she had as a child. Gorlinsky’s smile was what Polina thought the cat would have looked like, had it been able to express emotion as it toyed with a mouse.

“You, Ilya Nikolaevich, and Mikhail Petrovich, of course,” Gorlinsky continued, “I certainly can’t let you go alone. We do remember what happened to the _last_ agent we let do that.”

He allowed that statement to hang in the air for a moment, then laughed.

“Truly, that’s who we’re sending you to find!”

“To retrieve?” Polina asked, keeping her voice carefully blank.

“Yes,” Gorlinsky said. After a pause, he added, “Or shoot him on sight. I leave that up to you.”

Polina thought then of trigger-happy Mikhail Petrovich, who she once saw shoot a teenage boy because he cried as they dragged his father away.

“I will not fail, sir,” she said, already thinking of how to manage that very outcome without taking a bullet to her own skull.

“I have faith in you, Comrade Varankina,” Gorlinsky said, abandoning all pretext and airy, threatening jokes for a moment. “When you return, a promotion may be in your future. All of my men are disappointing me these days. At least you have no attachments to young men that get in the way of your work. That’s more than I can say for Deputy Commissioner Vaganov.”

Polina did not speak.

“Well. Dismissed, Comrade Varankina.”

“Good day, sir.”

* * *

 

She ran into Ilya Nikolaevich at the post office, because obviously, when things went wrong in Polina Varankina’s life, they went wrong spectacularly.

“Comrade Varankina! I—what are you doing here?” Ilya asked, his bright green eyes lit up at the sight of her. Polina resisted the urge to snatch the package from the postal worker inspecting it and hide it behind her back.

“I’m mailing a package, Comrade Vasiliev,” she said dryly, watching Ilya blush as that fact became painfully obvious to him. “That is typically what one does at the post office.”

“Right,” Ilya said sheepishly, looking down before looking up again. He took a step closer to her, albeit cautiously, as though she might bite him.

“But who are you mailing a package to?” Ilya asked, just as the woman boredly turned to Polina and said, “To France? That’s going to be a pretty sum of rubles. Are you sure about this one, comrade?”

Ilya’s eyes widened. Polina grabbed his wrist, tugged him against her, and gave the postal worker her most severe look.

“Do you want to interfere with a package being sent by the Cheka?” She hissed, watching the woman turn ashen. “I didn’t think so.”

“Comrade Varankina,” Ilya began, before Polina’s grip tightened dangerously on his wrist.

“Shut _up,_ Ilyusha,” she muttered, “I’ll explain later.”

Ilya Nikolaevich thankfully, blessedly, shut up, watching as Polina slid the woman at least double the sum of rubles with a haughty glance and a few extra ration coupons.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Commissioner Varankina,” the woman said, inspecting her prize, but giving Polina a serious nod, “It’ll make it to its destination. I’ll ensure it.”

“I’ll remember you, Comrade Branova,” Polina said pleasantly, watching as the woman took that one in. _Whether you succeed, or whether you fail me, I’ll remember you._

She took Ilya’s arm and walked out, a lovely matched set of uniforms. The crowds parted like the Red Sea before them. They walked all the way to the Baltic, and it was only when Polina sat down and tucked her knees up to her chest that Ilya spoke.

“Polya,” he said gently, “If I may call you that.”

“You may,” Polina said tightly.

“They’re sending us to France to kill Gleb Vaganov,” Ilya continued, “Polya, why… why are you making your job more difficult? Mikhail Petrovich…”

The spectre of Mikhail Petrovich Antonov lay between them for a moment. Mikhail, and his guns, and his cruelty.

“Mikhail Petrovich is a loose cannon,” Polina said carefully after a long moment, her voice soft enough that anyone passing by could only hear the waves of the Baltic crashing up against the sea wall. “And Gleb Vaganov is…”

“Your former lover,” Ilya said, his voice tinged with no small amount of bitterness, “But Polya, you don’t need to be loyal to him forever. He followed that false Anastasia to France, and now…”

He trailed off. Polina sighed, pulling a small book from inside her bag. She flipped through the pages, finally pulling out a small photo. Sixteen year old Polina Arkadievna stared out of it, wearing her nurse’s uniform. Seventeen year old Gleb Sergeyevich stood next to her, his uniform crisp. Seated in front of them were Sergey and Irina.

“He’s not my lover,” Polina said dryly, passing Ilya the photo, “He never was. The most we ever did was share kisses in parlor games when we were growing up. He’s my foster brother, if you want to be technical, but he’s my brother regardless of blood.”

Ilya was silent, staring at the photo.

“He ruined your life,” he finally said, “By drawing suspicion onto you. He’s a traitor, and I don’t know how you escaped seeming like a traitor yourself.”

“Because I’m smarter than Gleb Vaganov,” Polina said grimly, “And I’ve always been. And heaven help me, I’m going to be saving him from himself until he dies.”

“And Mikhail Petrovich? You know he won’t go along with this plan,” Ilya said gently, staring at Polina’s younger face in the photograph. His thumb traced the curve of her jaw. 

_Bitterly naming Gleb her former lover. Staying silent on her orders all the way from Leningrad's center to the Baltic. Touching the curve of her jaw in the photo like he wished he could lean over and..._

For the first time since Gorlinsky called her into his office, a real smile crossed Polina’s face.  

“Of course not,” she said, laying her hand over Ilya’s own hand as the breeze kicked up leaves on the path behind them. Ilya turned towards her like a flower, and the curl of satisfaction in Polina's chest turned to a warm glow as he blushed.

“I’m going to save Gleb from himself, and all of Russia from Mikhail Petrovich if this plan goes right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having writers block for Actual Chapter 8 and have to scrap what I've written so far. But I thought we needed a look into what's going on elsewhere in the WOSL universe, and y'all seem to enjoy Polina, so: here we are.


	9. Does history want you to live?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time has come, the day is here, and the Cheka have come to Reims.

Four days.

He was given four days before the proverbial sword of Damocles fell.

Gleb sat in Romilly’s stuffy office, trying to breathe normally as he thought about the way the past days had played out, leading him… Here. To Romilly’s office, hiding beneath the window as he heard Mikhail Petrovich’s dulcet voice threaten Pierre Herschel.

The morning after his birthday had dawned crisp as an apple. It was the kind of picture-book perfect autumn day, and had the rest of the world not been conspiring against Gleb, he would have thought it was the perfect way to kick off his 29th year.

As it happened, he woke up in bed next to Anya, which was imperfect and lovely in itself.

There was birdsong outside the open window, and he could hear the noise from the street, and felt rather than saw the sunlight on his face.

“Hey,” Anya whispered, and Gleb opened his eyes, rolling towards her voice. Anya’s blonde hair was mussed and her blue eyes were soft and sleepy. The pillow had left red creases on her cheek.

“Good morning,” Gleb murmured, reaching out hesitantly to stroke her flushed skin.

“Dima’s making coffee,” she said, reaching out to twine one of Gleb’s dark curls around her finger as she leaned into his palm, “If we’re lucky, he’ll bring it to us.”

“And if we’re unlucky?” Gleb replied with a hint of a laugh making itself known in his voice.

“If we’re unlucky, we have to get out of bed,” Anya said slyly, mischief written in her clear blue eyes. Gleb’s laughter broke and sat up, shaking his head. Anya curled into him, clearly unwilling to leave the safety of the covers. They stayed like that for a long moment, listening to Dmitry humming in the kitchen.

“I know we said we wouldn’t leave last night,” Anya said, as Gleb stroked her hair, “But…”

“It’s safer,” Gleb said tiredly, “They’re here for me, but you know the Cheka. Collateral damage is just… collateral damage. It’s accepted as long as the main objective is accomplished.”

“And if they find the street sweeper and false Anastasia you followed out of Russia, they might just decide to off me as well,” Anya sighed, “And Dima. Who has an arrest record.”

“Some of my coworkers would be diplomatic,” Gleb sighed, but thought of Mikhail Petrovich and some of his predecessors, “Some won’t. The Cheka drives all its employees mad with the things it makes us do, in the end. Some people are killed before they go mad. Some just… disappear themselves, like me. And some lean into the madness.”

“Polya?” Anya said, making the name into a question. She looked up at Gleb, who leaned down to kiss her forehead.

“I don’t know. She’ll probably disappear herself, eventually,” Gleb sighed, “Create a new name, run away to Crimea or Nizhny Novgorod. Maybe find a good man, take his name, write under a pseudonym. Or maybe she’ll rise in the ranks, become head of the Party, become supreme leader. We’ll just have to see. Polya’s smart, and efficient, and ruthless. She’ll survive.”

“The madness, though?” Anya asked.

“No, never madness,” Gleb replied, thinking of the silver fox that had replaced the collar of that cursed coat, “And even if she did, Polya and I are the same in that we could never hurt someone who loved us.”

Dmitry entered the room, then, with a tray of croissants and fresh coffee. Anya beamed.

“Did I miss anything good?” Dmitry teased, setting the tray on the night table. He peered between the pair, raising an eyebrow. Gleb blushed.

“Nothing important, I’m sure,” Gleb responded. “Just a bit of discussion on what your week is going to look like.”

“Our week?” Dmitry asked, settling himself next to Anya and grabbing a croissant, “Hm.”

“Anya and I were talking,” Gleb said, reaching out to push a bit of Dmitry’s hair off his forehead. He ignored Anya’s pleased smile at the motion, concentrating only on the sudden pink of the other man’s cheeks.

“It might be smarter if you went to Paris and stayed with Vlad and Lily, or the dowager,” he said quietly, “I’m not trying to send you away. But the Cheka doesn’t care about collateral damage.”

Dmitry set his chin at an angle that Gleb knew from experience meant he was about to dig his heels in.

“We’re your…” he began, struggling for the right word, “We’re your friends, and we’re your… beloveds. We shouldn’t just leave you here, like a sitting duck.”

“But they know that a street-sweeper and a con artist disappeared, and Gleb disappeared when he went in search of them,” Anya said gently, “It isn’t a stretch to imagine that we’re friends, and we disappeared together.”

“But they’re not here to search for _us_ ,” Dmitry complained.

“No, they aren’t,” Gleb agreed, grabbing his coffee and taking a sip. Dmitry had added the brown sugar he was so fond of, and he smiled unconsciously.

“But if they find you, it’ll be a case of two birds and one stone.”

Dmitry conceded defeat, albeit mulishly, taking a sullen bite of his croissant.

“I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone here, Gleb,” Dmitry finally bit out.

“I don’t either,” Anya said softly, before Gleb could reply, “But it’ll ease his mind if we’re safe. And he can concentrate on other things. Won’t it, Gleb?”

“It will,” Gleb said, and it sounded like a sigh even to his own ears. “It will.”

“Then we’ll go,” Dmitry said grimly, “But only for a week. And then we’re coming home. I expect status updates every day, alright?”

“Alright,” Gleb acquiesced, a little surprised it was so easy, and then—

“And when it’s all over, you’ll come to Paris and collect us from the Dowager’s townhouse yourself,” Dmitry finished, his tone one of unwavering steel.

“Don’t look so grim, Gleb,” Anya said, a teasing note slipping into her voice as she smiled, her blue eyes radiant. “You’d have to meet Nana sometime.”

Gleb bit his tongue, a joke about _I’d rather let Polya shoot me_ feeling in extremely poor taste, even with the expectation of his dark Slavic humor.

“I’ll help you two pack after breakfast,” he said, “Then I have to go into work, to see what plans we’re making there.”

“Then let’s make breakfast last,” Dmitry said coyly, kissing the side of Anya’s temple before he reached to take Gleb’s hand.

* * *

 

The commissariat was a well-oiled machine when he arrived, which was somewhat startling to Gleb Vaganov because the commissariat usually ran on two settings: lackadaisical ease complete with lazy cigarette smoke, or panicked paper throwing with a side of pure chaos.

“Ah, the man of the hour,” Pierre Herschel said dryly when Gleb walked in, “Good to see they didn’t kill you in the night.”

Their coworkers all looked somewhat grim at the dry remark, and Gleb was abruptly reminded that Slavic humor usually did not go over well with their Gallic counterparts.

“But they’ll be arriving most likely within the next few days to kill me, so we’d better get started,” Gleb reminded, knowing full well that the package Polina sent would have only been given a tiny head start on his former colleagues.

“Gleb, my boy,” Romilly said, breezing out of his office, “How are you this morning? Not too shocked by the events of last night? This will fix you up, right as rain.” In bafflingly short order, a chocolate croissant was thrust into Gleb’s hand, as well as a steaming hot mug of what looked like coffee. Baffled, Gleb took a sip. It tasted like the commissariat’s terrifying coffee mixed with hot chocolate. Despite the new sweetness, the mixture could still be used to tar a road.

“I’m well, all things considered,” Gleb managed, off-balance.

“Well, welcome to our little war conference,” Romilly said genially. He sounded as though he was on his third cup of coffee, and seemed bizarrely cheerful considering the circumstances.

“What are we to expect from your comrades in the Cheka?” Jacques Brodeur asked, two empty mugs on his table, “Pierre has agreed to pose as you, when they come knocking.”

“We have a plan!” Charles Revardy cheered.

“It’s barely nine?” Gleb tried.

“Some of us were here at six,” Romilly said dryly, with a pointed look at Pierre Herschel.

“I wasn’t going to sleep through any plans to raise hell against the Russian government,” Pierre shrugged, an unfamiliar gleam in his eye. In spite of himself, Gleb chuckled, touched at their concern.

“Sit, sit,” Romilly encouraged, ignoring that somewhat concerning statement from Pierre, “The plan is quite simple, in fact! Pierre did make the point that we don’t really know what our timeline is and we can’t really afford to run the commissariat as though it’s going to be under attack every waking moment.”

“But luckily for you, we have a Russian to spare,” Pierre took up the thread easily, “So when your former comrades come knocking, we take the plausible deniability lens and say—”

Here Pierre switched to Russian, affecting a tone of wounded innocence, “I’m Gleb Ivanovich Varankin, and I don’t understand what business the Cheka has with me, seeing as I left Russia in 1905.”

Gleb gaped.

“Ivanovich?” he said faintly.

“Pyotr Ivanovich Herschel,” Pierre responded quietly, “The easiest lie is the one closest to the truth. No sense trying to make things more complicated than they need to be.”

“That’s exactly it,” Romilly said, and Gleb belatedly realized that they had switched back to French, and Romilly was pitching his voice to carry. “No sense in making things complicated. The only difference is that Gleb is going to be working from my office, so that Pierre can sit at his desk.”

“For… as long as this takes to be sorted out?” Gleb asked hesitantly. He’d gotten strangely accustomed to only having his desk, and being on the level with friendly peers, instead of aloof and envied as Deputy Commissioner.

“For only as long as it takes,” Romilly assured him, and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, son,” he said, and Gleb fought down the painful rush of emotion at the word that rose in his throat at Romilly’s gesture, “We take care of our own in this commissariat. And you’re one of us, now.”

* * *

 

The day passed. Gleb returned home to an empty flat, with only the sounds of Madame Richelieu bustling around two stories below him for company. He cooked dinner, a solitary meal of a _croque madame_ made with far too much butter and doused liberally with pepper. He woke up screaming from nightmares of Dmitry dying in his arms the way Fedya did, nightmares of Anya in that red dress, dead on the floor by his own hand.

He went to work, passed the day in Romilly’s office filing paperwork, went home, and called the townhouse, and left a message with the Dowager Empress’ butler. Two more days of the same routine passed, with Gleb’s anxiety ratcheting up exponentially each day that nothing happened. He didn’t dare call Polya, knowing that she would either be on her way to Reims, or stuck in the offices, seething, and unable to help either way. The fox-fur, the arctic fox in the middle of autumn, was her only way of helping him.

And on the fourth day, Gleb sat in Romilly’s office, laughing at a joke his grandfatherly mentor said and holding a mug of terrible coffee, when Romilly went still.

The main office of the commissariat had gone silent, and thanks to that, through the door, Gleb could hear a horrifyingly familiar voice say, in accented, trembling French:

“I am looking for Gleb Sergeyevich Vaganov, most likely here under the assumed name of Gleb Varankin. He is wanted for crimes committed in Leningrad. This is a matter of international importance.”

Romilly laughed again, but it was forced.

“ _Merci beaucoup, mon ami,”_ he said loudly, picking up the telephone silently, “I will speak with you later. Thank you for your call."

He hung up he receiver with a little too much force, gesturing to the wall beneath the windows of the office. Gleb moved slowly, attempting to be as quiet as possible, so he heard when Pierre Herschel stood.

“I am Gleb Ivanovich Varankin,” the older man said slowly, in French for the benefit of their colleagues, “Perhaps there has been some mistake.”

There was a long pause.

“You are not who we are looking for,” Ilya Nikolaevich Vasiliev said slowly, his French particularly careful, and Gleb tasted hope on the stale air for what felt like the longest second of his life. If they’d sent Ilya Nikolaevich, there was a good chance he’d walk out of the commissariat alive. Ilya Nikolaevich was kind, and gentle, and half in love with Polina Arkadievna, and—

And then:

“What the hell are you saying, Vasiliev? Get to the fucking point,” Mikhail Petrovich Antonov purred in Russian, and Gleb closed his eyes, a hot rush of panic and certainty flowing through his veins.

 _They sent Mikhail Petrovich_ , he thought, his heart beating fast enough to make him feel lightheaded, _I am going to die. I am going to die and I will never see Polya or Anya or Dima again. I am going to break their hearts._

When he had thought about sending Ilya and Polya a postcard about walking into the ocean, or considered jumping into the Seine, his morbid thoughts had no consideration of who he’d leave behind. Perhaps he knew somewhere, deep down, that he would never actually drown himself, because of that. His eyes strayed to the desk he was now too far from, aware that his movement would give away the ruse of Romilly being alone in his office.

 _I want to say goodbye,_ Gleb thought, staring at the fountain pens and paper, and then, _I don’t want to die. Not when I have people to live for._

“I said that I am Gleb Ivanovich Varankin,” Pierre Herschel said in Russian, sounding as though he was bothered by the entire affair and wanted nothing more than to get back to work. Gleb was suddenly struck by the ugly reality of the danger he’d put the older man in. Romilly was pale, standing by the telephone.

“He’ll kill him,” Gleb whispered urgently to Romilly, as Pierre spoke again.

“I don’t understand what this is about. I left Russia in 1905,” Pierre drawled, “It was my understanding at the time that Russia wanted nothing to do with me or my _kind_.”

“Mikhail will kill him, Romilly,” Gleb whispered, as frightened as he was the night Fedya left, as frightened as he was the night his father left for Ipatiev House. “ _Do something!_ ”

Romilly squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and smiled. It was a polite smile, an indulgent smile—a grandfather’s smile. He opened the door.

“Gentlemen,” he said sweetly, “Is there an issue here?”

“Someone’s just accused Pierre of treason? Against Russia?” Jacques Brodeur laughed, though there was a somewhat strained quality to it. “Come watch.”

“I am Inspector Guillaume Romilly,” the man said, a hint of question in his voice. “What are you gentlemen doing in my commissariat?”

“I am looking for Gleb Sergeyevich Vaganov—” Ilya began haltingly once more, before Mikhail cut him off.

“He’s lying,” he snarled in Russian, and Gleb could hear Ilya stumble. _Mikhail must have shoved him._ “He’s _lying,_ now _tell us the truth!”_

There was a rustle of fabric, and then the familiar _snick_ of a handgun being cocked.

“Give us Gleb Vaganov and no one gets hurt,” Mikhail snarled, and Gleb knew he was pointing the gun at Pierre. “Translate that into your shitty French, Ilya, if you want.”

“I don’t understand,” Pierre said, adapting a conciliatory tone, “I’m Gleb Varankin.”

“ _The fuck you are!_ ” Mikhail yelled, and the commissariat fell into an uneasy silence.

“Please,” Ilya said into the quiet, “Give us Gleb Vaganov. We know you… you have him.”

Gleb closed his eyes, listening as Ilya stumbled through the incorrect singular pronoun and then corrected himself. The blond was always nervous, he recalled, high strung, with a partner like Mikhail. He only ever relaxed when he was miles away from Mikhail, like that trip to Moscow what felt like decades ago.

Ilya falteringly corrected himself, and Mikhail groaned.

“This idiot can’t fucking say anything right, I don’t even speak French and I know he’s fucking up,” he groused in Russian to no one in particular, “Too fucking bad Varankina decided she didn’t have the stomach to shoot her brother and stayed at the hotel. Should have dragged the red-haired bitch kicking and screaming.”

 _Varankina._ Gleb’s head snapped up.

Polya was here.

Polya was here, in Reims.

Polina Arkadievna Varankina was here, in Reims, and that meant that there was absolutely no way, not in heaven nor hell, that Polya was heartsick at some hotel because she’d have to shoot him. It meant that Polya had faked sick and that she had a plan.

“Well, no more of this,” Mikhail declared, taking a step forwards. “Ilya, put it to them this way: if they don’t hand over Gleb Vaganov, someone is going to die.”

Gleb took a deep breath, preparing to stand, when he heard Ilya cry out and stumble again.

“Mikhail!” Ilya yelped, “Mikhail, _pozhaluysta!_ ”

“Gleb Sergeyevich!” Mikhail called out over the sudden clamor of a precinct of angry and terrified officers, over Pierre’s growl of _what are you doing with that poor boy_ , “I know you’re here! And if you don’t come out of whatever office or closet or cabinet you’re hiding in, I’m going to shoot your brother-in-law!”

 _My brother-in-law._ Mikhail had Ilya. And Ilya had finally, _finally,_ up and confessed to Polya that he’d been in love with her for years, and by brother-in-law, that implied she had accepted, and—

Ilya. Sweet, smart Ilyusha. Ilyusha who loved books. Beloved of Polya. Bright, clever, smarter-than-me-by-half Polya, who sent him out with Mikhail so that she could save Gleb’s sorry ass.

“Polya, you’d better have the goddamn plan I think you have,” Gleb muttered to himself, gathered his courage and his sense of duty and his loyalty around him, and stood.

“I’m here,” he called out, and out of the shadows of Romilly’s office Gleb Vaganov stepped into the light.

* * *

Mikhail Petrovich beamed, and the first thing Gleb thought was, _he’s finally lost it._ His dark eyes gleamed with not just malice, but giddiness. Ilya squirmed, held tightly in front of him, with Mikhail pressing his handgun pressed to Ilya’s blond head. His green eyes were frightened, yet he held Gleb’s gaze evenly. Several members of the commissariat also had handguns drawn, pointing them at the pair.

The last time Gleb had seen a blond look so grim yet determined, Fyodor Innokentyevich was being sent behind enemy lines to steal plans. Gleb swallowed down the instinctive fear that particular _deja vu_ produced and stepped forwards.

“I knew the intel wasn’t wrong,” Mikhail laughed, “I knew it. Where have you been hiding, Gleb Sergeyevich? Dear, beloved Deputy Commissioner?”

“In Reims,” Gleb drawled, feeling the same annoyance tinged with wariness that he always felt upon passing Comrade Antonov in the halls. “I thought that was rather the point of this exercise.”

“We all thought you would have drowned yourself,” Mikhail taunted, and Ilya squirmed again, uncomfortable. “Following your little street sweeper here to Paris. Where is she now? Did she meet the fucking empress? Get kicked to the curb? Have you _married_ her yet, Gleb Vaganov?”

Mikhail’s eyes traveled down to Gleb’s hands and his smile broadened, seeing a lack of a wedding ring.

“Or are you just fucking her? Little Anya Mouse, jumping at shadows, saved by the Deputy Commissioner…”

“Don’t speak of Anya,” Gleb snapped, suddenly seething.

“O-o-oh, I see,” Mikhail smirked, “She found someone else. Someone who gave her those papers, maybe. That Dmitry—”

“Will you just let go of Ilya already?” Gleb pleaded, “Please!”

“Ah, but how can I ensure your cooperation?” Mikhail said, suddenly serious, “If I let him go, what leverage do I have over you?”

“I’ll go quietly,” Gleb breathed, not daring to look at the windows. “I’ll walk out right now. You lead, I’ll follow. Just don’t shoot me here. Stand down,” he added in French, watching his coworkers reluctantly lower their guns.

“Don’t shoot you _here?”_ Mikhail frowned, confused.

“I’d rather not have my coworkers clean up the mess,” Gleb said, and Pierre Herschel could contain himself no longer.

“Gleb, are you out of your mind?!” He snapped, and Ilya cried out as Mikhail jammed the gun into his neck in response. Gleb yelped, making an aborted lunge for Ilya that he contained as soon as he thought the better of it.

“Trust me,” Gleb pleaded in French, turning only his head to Pierre and staring at him beseechingly. He raised his hands, trying to convey to Mikhail that he wasn’t about to pull a gun from anywhere.

 _“Pozhaluysta,_ Mikhail Petrovich,” Gleb said softly, “They will shoot you if you shoot me in here. I will call off my French comrades, and I will follow you, and we can deal with this out back where you won’t have a dozen shell-shocked French soldiers. You can’t shoot _all_ of them. You don't have enough bullets in that gun.”

Mikhail frowned, and Gleb licked his lips, trying to hold his gaze.

“Fine,” Mikhail muttered, taking steps backwards. Ilya staggered backwards with him, both hands coming to hold Mikhail’s arm to keep his balance.

“Courage, Gleb,” Charles Revardy murmured as Gleb stepped forwards, “Courage.”

 _“Ouais,_ ” Gleb muttered, “Be patient.”

“Stop _talking,_ Vaganov,” Mikhail huffed, before he let Ilya go. The gun, however, stayed in place, and Ilya straightened up in increments, looking for all the world as though he was bracing himself.

“Comrade Vaganov,” Ilya finally addressed him as Mikhail opened the door, “I’m so sorry.”

Mikhail kicked the doorstop under the door and stepped into the October light, dragging Ilya with him.

“Alright, Deputy Commissioner?” he taunted, “Still following me?”

A gunshot rang out like a crack of lightning, and Ilya pitched forward with Mikhail, blood on his face, staining his blond hair.

Someone screamed. Gleb wasn’t sure if it was him or not but it wasn’t important, not when he was lunging for them, everything in his brain screaming _FedyaFedyaFEDYA_ as he scrambled to reach them. _Not again, who shot him? Not again, not Ilya,_ **_not again—_**

It was only when Ilya Nikolaevich sat up, breathing hard like he’d sprinted through the Reims marketplace on a June day, that Gleb realized the person who wasn’t moving was in fact Mikhail Petrovich Antonov.

“Ilya?” Gleb tried after what must have been too long of a moment, trying to ignore the part of his brain that was still in freezing Galicia. He reached out to him hesitantly. Ilya looked down instead, brushing his fingers over Mikhail’s head. They came back dark, dark red.

The commissaires gathered around, Pierre crouching next to Gleb and laying his arm over his shoulder. Gleb, stunned, leaned into the embrace.

“She did it,” Ilya whispered into the silence, “She got her shot.”

He sprang up, lunging two steps into the light and laughing hysterically in what Gleb assumed was relief.

“It’s done!” He yelled, leaning over and bracing both hands on his knees for a moment before he waved madly, covered in Mikhail’s blood. “It’s done! Polya! _It’s done!”_

* * *

The commissariat, of course, wasn’t content to simply let Ilya go. It was Charles Thibault who gently led Ilya back inside to where they were trying to clean up the body of Mikhail Petrovich. Ilya went easily, beaming at Gleb and accepting a quick hug from his former superior with a grateful smile and the gentle press of his head against Gleb's shoulder. 

Pierre took Ilya over to question him about their plan as well as offering him some brandy to ease his nerves. Romilly sat with Gleb, questioning him with the gentleness he usually reserved for small children who had become separated from their parents at the marketplace.

“Who was the man who was killed?”

“Mikhail Petrovich Antonov. He was one of my subordinates at the Cheka,” Gleb answered numbly.

“And the young man who ran out?” Romilly asked, noting the answer in a small notebook.

“My friend, Ilya Nikolaevich Vasiliev,” Gleb said quietly, “I think… he might have married my sister. Mikhail mentioned him being my brother-in-law. That’s what he said to make me come out. He threatened to kill Ilya.”

“And why do you think he did that?” Romilly’s soft, low French was a balm on Gleb’s stressed mind.

“Because he knew that he would be the target I would step out to save,” Gleb answered, “If, for instance, I didn’t like Jacques.”

“Hey,” Jacques murmured, appearing by Gleb’s desk with a cigarette and a smile. Gleb laughed and gratefully took it from him, taking a long drag before passing it back to the other man.

“I do like Jacques,” he laughed slightly, “But for the sake of the argument, let’s say I didn’t. If I didn’t like Jacques, I might have let Mikhail just kill him had he grabbed him. Ilya, however… Ilya is my friend. He knows I wouldn’t let him die. He was certain of that. He wasn't certain of any of you.”

“I see,” Romilly said, nodding as though this line of thought wasn’t something brutal and horrifying. Jacques ruffled Gleb’s hair warmly, clearly not taking offense.

“And the shot?” Romilly continued, “The shot that killed this… Mikhail Petrovich Antonov?”

“That would be me,” came a voice from the doorway. Almost as one, the commissariat turned to the open door.

There stood Polina Varankina, cap jauntily askew on her red hair, skirted Cheka uniform covered in dust and gunpowder, small hands covered in black leather gloves. Her glasses were sliding down her nose. Her lips were bloody, bitten raw in what Gleb knew was a stress reaction. Her blue eyes searched the room before finding Gleb, and she made a noise halfway between a word and a cry, reaching for him before she suppressed the reaction.

“Polya,” Gleb said, standing, before repeating her name, _“Polya.”_

“Gleb,” Polya said, and it was as though the stress of the last several weeks caught up to them both in the same moment. Polya let out a sob, covering her mouth with her gloved hands, and Gleb laughed as he crossed the short distance to take her in his arms.

“Polyushka,” he murmured, holding her tightly and stroking her hair as Polya pressed her face against his chest, “Shh, _malenkaya lisa,_ don’t cry. My little fox, my darling fox, don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” Polya hissed, “I’m just…”

She pulled back, and beamed, her cheeks wet with tears.

“I promised I’d see you again, Gleb’ka,” she wept, still with that radiant smile, and took off the glasses that were fogging up with her tears, “I was so afraid I wouldn’t be able to keep that promise.”

Gleb pressed a kiss to her forehead, then to the top of her head, gathering her back into his arms. “You saved me,” he murmured, “My brave little sister, crossing the continent and betraying orders for me.”

“...Well, _someone’s_ got to keep your stupid ass alive,” Polya sniffled, muffled but clear enough that Pierre Herschel snorted.

“Yes,” Pierre said to Romilly and to the commissariat at large in reassuring French, “They’re definitely siblings.”

* * *

 

It turned out that having a large commissariat plus three Cheka officers was quite useful in faking a death. Ilya allowed himself gamely to be photographed covered in blood before he washed off, and Charles Revardy made a quick run to the butcher’s for extra blood in order to stage a crime scene for Polya’s photographs. While it galled several members of the force, Polina’s succinct explanation that they had to have proof for Gorlinsky so that they could return without Mikhail, but also with Polina’s reputation untarnished.

“I also would prefer not to be executed on my arrival back in Leningrad for my failure,” she said primly, which silenced the last of the dissenters.

The story came out as Polina deftly applied blood to Gleb’s neck and hair, and Gleb allowed Polya to tell the majority of her side—of Gleb’s name being discovered in the papers, of General Gorlinsky taking her into his office, of Ilya and Mikhail, and of Mikhail’s mounting cruelty and increasing loss of…

“Sanity, really, I think,” Polya said, pouring some pigs blood into the dust behind the commissariat with a frightening amount of ease, “I think even Gorlinsky realized that he was starting to lose it.” Gleb tried not to squirm from his place on the ground. The smell of blood made his stomach turn, and it was a relief when the camera snapped the photo of him lying "dead" in the dirt.

“That’s not comforting,” Charles Thibault said, lighting a cigarette for Jacques Brodeur, “They just have agents who are losing their minds, out on the job?”

“Mikhail was useful,” Ilya said slowly, his French improving now that he was in no danger of being shot, “He was not afraid to do his duty. He did it with relish. Every organization needs an attack dog.”

“Who’s our attack dog?” Jacques wondered, “Pierre?”

“Gleb’s earned it,” Pierre said dryly, “He can have that particular position. Are you sure that’s not too much blood?”

“Head wounds bleed a lot,” Polya said succinctly, stepping back to observe her handiwork.

“Madame Richelieu is going to _kill_ me for ruining her uniform,” Gleb groaned from his place on the ground.

“Madame Richelieu is going to see you and I together and she’s going to weep with joy,” Polya said briskly, pulling him up, “Who do you think gave me the ride to the commissariat?”

By the time the coroner was called to deal with the body, the police reports had already been filed—one officer killed, one insane Cheka officer killed in self defense. No other victims. Gleb Varankin’s name would be printed as dead, and then privately recalled as a mistake. Just… not in print. And that evening, Gleb would be on his way to Paris, Polya and Ilyusha at his side, in order to let Anya and Dima know before they read the paper and thought him dead.

“I promised them I’d retrieve them myself,” Gleb said quietly to Romilly, “But I can wait, if you still need me…”

He turned back to Ilyusha and Polya, who were standing close to each other. Polya kept one eye on Gleb, but she turned her face up to Ilya, saying something he couldn’t hear but made Ilya close his eyes and lean a bit further into her space.

“What did we tell you?” Romilly soothed, “Go. Take the rest of the week. Come back on Monday. In fact, we have a driver for you.”

“We were just going to take the train,” Gleb tried, feeling himself sway on his feet.

“No, no,” he soothed, “Pierre said he and his wife will go visit their children in Paris tonight.”

“Pierre has children?” Gleb breathed, trying to visualize stern—or not so stern anymore—Pierre Herschel with babies.

“Pierre has _grandchildren,”_ Romilly said wryly, before gently brushing some of Gleb’s curls out of his face. Dimly, Gleb realized the pomade must have lost the battle with his curls and nervous sweat sometime between hearing his friends threatened and watching his former coworker get shot in the head.

“But first, you three are going to go back to your apartment and get cleaned up,” he said in the voice Irina Vaganova used to use when a very dirty Gleb and Polya came back from an afternoon of tree-climbing and needed a bath, “Someone will drive you back.”

“Okay,” Gleb acquiesced, losing the battle with his tiredness, “Whatever you say, Inspector.”

“For once, Gleb,” Romilly said wryly, “You can call me Guillaume.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's all denouement from here, folks! Except... Gleb also has to meet Nana. 
> 
> Thoughts? Comments? Questions? We'll see a lot more of Anya and Dima in the next chapter. I promise. Thanks for sticking with me, guys! We might have 11 chapters, depending on what gets accomplished in chapter 10.


	10. Un Bel Di

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mikhail is dead, Gleb is alive, and everything is smooth sailing from here, right? WRONG! Well, sort of wrong. But we're well on our way to a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've linked a piece in the body of this chapter; the Humming Chorus from the opera Madama Butterfly. It's truly a beautiful piece of music and it defines that sort of hopeful waiting feeling for me. I hope you all do give it a listen even if you can't read the chapter with the music, it's one of my favorites and suits the mood well. 
> 
> And yes, Claude-Michel Schönberg is a dirty thief, in case you recognize the melody. Puccini did it first, and better.

Madame Richelieu cried when the three of them appear on her doorstep. 

“Madame,” Gleb began, but she throws her arms around him before he can continue speaking.

“ _ Merci, mon Dieu _ ,” she breathed, ignoring the blood and dust and sweat on his now-ruined uniform. She pulled back, her white-blonde hair gleaming in the autumn sun. She cradled Gleb’s face in her palm, smiling and shaking her head.

“I was so worried,” she continued, “When Mademoiselle Varankina came to my shop this morning, to ask for my help... I’ve had a knot in my stomach all day.”

“Thank you, Madame,” Polya interjected gently, and Madame Richelieu finally let Gleb go, “I think… Gleb in particular could use a bath. Might we come inside?”

“This is his home, I imagine he can,” Madame Richelieu said wryly. Gleb turned to Polya, suddenly eager to welcome her to the townhouse he shared with Anya and Dmitry but only saw Polya stiffen and paste on a smile he knew was fake. 

“Polya,” he said, but she smiled, the flash of light on her glasses obscuring any trace of tears. The armor she wore was familiar, but it stung that she now used it to defend herself from him. 

“A good and loyal Russian,” she murmured, “Not so much anymore, Gleb’ka. I hope you’re used to it.” 

“Go on,” Madame Richelieu said gently, sensing an argument, “I’ll make you some sandwiches to take with you to Paris. Will you be taking the train?”

“No, Comrade Herschel will be driving us,” Ilya said, giving Polya a gentle push forwards and smiling encouragingly at her. 

“Comrade Herschel!” Gleb heard Madame Richelieu say with a laugh as Polya resolutely trekked up the stairs ahead of Gleb, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone call him that!”

Gleb shut the door to the second floor behind him, turning to stare at Polya. 

“I’ll run you a bath,” she said, turning in a circle. “This is almost as fine as the house in Yekaterinburg. Back when Uncle Sergey was alive.” 

“Polya,” Gleb began, before Polya fixed him with a burning stare.

“I told myself I would be honest. I’ve done a lot of thinking, and I am… angry, yes, angry at you,” she said quietly, “But more than that, I am angry at the world we live in. I hate that I cannot visit you. I hate that we haven’t spoken in months. God, I’m so  _ happy _ you’re alive, I knew that missing that shot would mean I killed Ilyusha or killed  _ you _ , but I’m  _ terrified  _ this will be the last time I see you again when I go back to Russia. And I’m furious that the choices you made mean I can’t take you home with me.”

Gleb took a deep breath to steady himself, letting it out in a sigh. He began to remove his bloody, sweat-soaked jacket and left the ruined wool crumpled in a pile near the door. 

“I know,” he finally said, “Polyushka, don’t you think it’s been breaking my heart that I only have the one photo of us? That sometimes at work, I turn to make a joke and you’re not there? That I used to roll over in bed still expecting you to kick me? That I still can’t make Mama’s stroganoff to save my life? That I hum to myself and still expect you to be there, humming the next line with me?”

Polya had stripped off her leather gloves, and her hands were strikingly pale as she lifted them to cover her eyes. Her bloody, raw lips were pressed together so tight they were nearly white, and Gleb knew in an instant she was about to cry again.

“You’re  _ useless _ ,” she seethed, her voice choked, and Gleb was reminded of their conversation back in the spring, when he told her he was staying in France. The distance had allowed her to remain remote and angry then, but here in front of him, Gleb  _ knew _ that she was using her anger as a rapidly-weakening shield to cover all the fear and the horrible cloying sadness that she’d felt over the last few months of their separation.

“Little fox,” Gleb said gently, and Polya whirled away, holding up one hand as though to keep him at bay. Gleb pressed forwards, walking until her hand was against his chest. He lifted a hand of his own, covering hers and moving it over his heart. 

“My little fox-sister, with her red-gold hair and her sharp teeth and claws,” he murmured, and Polya’s shoulders shook. “You forget I know your bite all too well.”

“...I don’t like living without you,” she finally admitted in a whisper that was heavy with tears. 

“You have Ilyusha now,” Gleb said as tenderly as he could. “You didn’t want to marry me, darling. This is where it gets us. Me in France and you in Leningrad. You, the rising star of the Cheka and me, Commissaire Varankin. I’m Anya and Dima’s lover, and you’re Madame Vasilieva.”

“I’m not married, just,” Polya began, then stumbled back. Gleb only barely managed to keep a hold of her hand. Her blue eyes were wide and stunned behind her glasses.

“You’re  _ what?”  _ she gaped openly, “They… You’re their  _ lover _ now?”

“We haven’t exactly done anything,” Gleb said dryly, “Just slept together. Same bed. We only got that cleared up the night of my birthday party, which, by the way, thank you for your gift. I think it sent Anya and I both into panic attacks.”

“You’re alive because of it,” Polya said darkly, then tilted her head. “So it’s true. She really is the lost princess.”

Gleb remembered his father that night, presenting the scared girl on the stairs with the burgundy coat.

“...He saved her, Polya,” Gleb said softly. “Papa… he gave Anya your coat and sent her off to Beryozovsky. He saved her life. With your old navy coat. She remembers that.” 

Polya wrapped her fingers tightly around Gleb’s hand and squeezed, taking a shaky breath.

“Do they love you, Gleb’ka?” she whispered, “Anya and Dima?”

“Stay in Paris a few days,” Gleb whispered back, “You and Ilyusha. Have an early honeymoon. Tell them it took longer than expected to track us down. Tell them Reims had an issue with Ilyusha and there was paperwork. They confiscated the photos. Something like that... Let me introduce them to you. You can judge it for yourself.”

“I have met Dmitry Petrovich and Anya Nikolaevna,” said Comrade Varankina in her chilliest professional tones, but Gleb knew that buried shallowly underneath her structured persona was Polya’s innate curiosity.

“You’ve never met them as  _ my _ Anya and  _ my _ Dima,” Gleb said gently, stepping closer to her. Polya swallowed hard, then sighed. 

“Alright,” she finally acquiesced, “Then let’s get you cleaned up. I’ll ring Gorlinsky in the morning, from Paris. And we’ll meet your lovers.”

“Thank you, Polya,” Gleb said, and drew her into a hug. Polya rested her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes, and Gleb stroked her hair, already reaching up to undo the pins the way he always did at the end of a long day.

“...You know, Ilyusha does this for me now,” Polya murmured sleepily against his waistcoat. “He did it in front of Mikhail, on the train. Said it’d be more realistic.”

“For old time’s sake, then,” Gleb murmured, remembering years spent in Polina’s childhood bedroom and then their Leningrad apartment. He would stand behind her at her vanity, first unpinning her hair and then brushing it out until it shone like a river of golden fire down her back.

“Do you do this for Anya?” Polya asked, and Gleb knew her mind was sketching parallels: Sergey Vaganov unpinning his wife’s hair at her vanity and Gleb and Polya watching them through a crack in the doorway; Gleb and Polina imitating them as children; Ilyusha perhaps sitting in the quiet Leningrad apartment behind Polya, his hands possibly trembling with the responsibility he had been entrusted with. Gleb doing this for Anya was the natural conclusion. 

“I haven’t yet,” Gleb said thoughtfully, “But I like to think she’d let me try.”

* * *

Polya and Ilyusha fell asleep in the backseat of the Herschel’s car, lulled by the sounds of Pierre and Sephoré Herschel speaking quietly in what Gleb assumed was Yiddish in the front seat. He liked Sephoré, who was around Pierre’s age and seemed to always be smiling. Pierre seemed heartily amused by the sight of Polya in the middle, dozing against Gleb, and Ilyusha dozing against her, their hands twined between their laps. 

They dropped the trio off in the center of Paris, around L’Hotel, where Gleb acquired a room with a cot for the three of them. Night had fallen, and Polya and Ilya both seemed as though they were trying to hide the fact that they were beginning to succumb to the charms of the City of Light.

“I may not be back tonight, but if I am…” Gleb began, before Polya cut him off.

“I’ll hang a brassiere on the door if Ilya and I are  _ busy _ ,” she purred, making Ilya turn bright red and begin to cough, and causing Gleb to groan loudly. 

“ _ Please _ keep any of your  _ business _ with Ilya to yourself!” he exclaimed.

“If you’re not back, then we’ll meet you at Angelina’s for breakfast,” Polina said primly, but cackled at the trouble she had caused. Ilya refused to meet Gleb’s eyes, staring at a plant in the hotel’s lobby. 

“Take care of Ilya,” Gleb said, rolling his eyes, “Ask at the front desk for a good dinner recommendation, and take a map, and—”

“Go find your lovers, mother hen! We’ll see you tomorrow!” Polya groaned, giving his chest a light shove. She was dressed in one of Anya’s cosmopolitan dresses, and Madame Richelieu had spruced up one of Dmitry’s suits for the lanky Ilya. Gleb finally sighed, giving the pair kisses on the cheek, and left them to their exploring.

“Don’t let Anya’s Nana intimidate you!” Ilya called after him encouragingly, “You’ve got a right to be here just as much as she does! A cat may look at a king, and all that!”

Gleb laughed, waving him off. Polya’s affection was clearly doing good things for the young man.

The streets were dark, but Gleb certainly didn’t feel unsafe: Leningrad’s streets were meaner, he was nowhere near any of the dangerous areas of Paris, and any pickpocket would probably be dissuaded by his spare commissaire’s uniform. The streets were filled with crunchy dead leaves,  [ and Gleb was left alone with his thoughts ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4rV0y4syKvQ&list=RD2r1DScXujgM&index=4) as he walked to the Dowager Empress’ townhouse. 

Anya and Dmitry may have been happy to see him, but he’d managed to miss them each time he called. The butler who had mistaken him as a chauffeur the last time he was in Paris had picked up each time, assuring Gleb in a dry tone that he would pass the message along. The countess seemed to like him, but he wasn’t sure how much sway he had. Popov probably was well on his way to recognizing Gleb as Deputy Commissioner Vaganov. And the dowager…

The less he thought about the dowager empress, the better.

He remembered the way Dmitry had felt in his arms the night they danced at the Neva Club. The night he had talked about  _ ah, the Proletariat has been you this whole time. _ It was true that now, with the rest of the Romanovs dead and the nobility scattered to the winds, she was the last remnant of the era left to hate. He had left Leningrad for Anya, who had left Russia for this woman, the last of her family. Was part of his resentment towards the dowager because of that? Because he was forced to leave home, and now was stuck in France with no way back? 

But now he was in Reims, with a life he enjoyed. Pierre, who initially disliked him, clapped him on the shoulder as they said goodbye, and Sephoré had kissed him on both cheeks, declaring him a nice boy, and promising to have him over for some proper borscht and blini sometime. His coworkers were… trying, at times, but he enjoyed the rapid fire French and the chases and the tossing of cigarettes through the commissariat. He liked Romilly’s insistence of cake on birthdays and the last Friday of every month. He enjoyed patrolling with Jacques Brodeur and Charles Revardy, he laughed when Charles Thibault smacked him in the head with cigarettes, and he liked Laurent Saint-Just laughing when his wife and baby came to collect him from work. 

And there were Anya and Dmitry in France. That certainly couldn’t be discounted. 

Yes, Polya and Ilya would go back to Russia, and he would miss them terribly. But he had faith that they would survive and be happy. He had faith that Russia could go on without him. There would be a new commissioner in the square, and he’d be there every day.

He didn’t think he would ever like the dowager, who he imagined had faced little to no material hardship in her entire life. But she was Anya’s Nana. He could be polite for a few hours. 

Gleb ran a hand through his hair and sighed. The curls stuck to his fingers and he snorted slightly, remembering Polya’s insistence on no pomade. He admittedly needed very little convincing, remembering and feeling silly for not understanding the soft, dreamy looks Anya and Dmitry got when they saw him with curls.

The townhouse he found was large and imposing; more of a house than the two small floors that they occupied in Reims. Light blazed from only a few windows. Gleb wondered if the family had gone out to dinner, or if everyone had turned in early, but as it was barely gone eight, he doubted it to the extreme.

He strolled up through the wrought iron gates and knocked rather hesitantly on the door. After a good minute, the butler he dealt with the last time opened the door a crack.

“Her Majesty is out for the evening,” he said, nearly closing the door in Gleb’s face before he noticed the uniform. The door opened wider, and the man looked hesitant.

“ _ Commissaire _ ,” he said a tad more respectfully, “What can I do for you?”

_ Oh, the difference the uniform makes, _ Gleb thought, a familiar thrill running through him before he mercilessly quashed it.

“I’m Commissaire Vaganov,” he said airily, straightening up.  _ A cat may look at a king. _ “I’m here to see Anya Malevskaya and Dmitry Popov.”

The butler looked conflicted. On one hand, Gleb was certain the man was very annoyed by his calls the past few days, but on the other, Gleb was a commissaire, and if this man had any sense in his brain, he would know that Gleb was a man to be respected. He was tempted to call him comrade, but Gleb was rather certain that it would have the opposite effect he wanted.  

“Mademoiselle Malevskaya and Monsieur Popov the younger are at the opera tonight,” the butler confessed, “Puccini’s  _ Madama Butterfly.  _ I am not sure when they will return, Commissaire Vaganov…”

“Would it be possible for me to wait?” Gleb asked gently, removing his cap and smiling as non-threateningly as possible. 

“...I will show you to the parlor where you can wait,” the butler finally sighed, and Gleb stepped inside.

* * *

It shouldn’t have shocked Gleb that he fell asleep. Not even the Cheka would have sent him out after a day like that: yes, he would have been forced to debrief, but Gleb’s tired brain had recognized the debrief from Romilly for what it was. He’d bathed, changed, and eaten. He’d powered through the nap that Polya and Ilya had in the car, and stayed awake in order to get them settled at the hotel and find the dowager’s house.

It still came as a shock to wake upon the sound of worried, hushed voices. Gleb blinked the sleep out of his eyes, wondering how offended the dowager would be to find him likening a nap on her chaise to a nap in the trenches between shellings.

“...commissaire shot. In Reims.”

“The butler said there were no calls, Dima…”

“He can’t be dead. You really think…”

“...but Polina…”

There was a pause, the butler saying something indistinct. Gleb took the opportunity to straighten the newspaper in his lap as well as his hair, endeavoring to look less like he’d just woken up from a nap.

“While you two argue, I’ll deal with your guest,” came the voice of the Countess, and into the room stepped Lily, resplendent in a velvet emerald gown embroidered with tiny golden beads. She stared at Gleb for a long moment.

“Countess,” Gleb greeted blandly. Lily whistled loudly as though calling a pack of hunting dogs.

The voices outside the door went silent. Into the room, stumbling over each other like puppies dripping in silks and velvets and furs, came Anya and Dmitry.

“Hello, you two,” Gleb said warmly, setting the newspaper aside and making to stand.

_ “Gleb!”  _ came both their voices at once, and before Gleb could move, the pair had crossed the room and hastily skidded to their knees at Gleb’s feet. Anya’s blue eyes were just as wide and frightened as Dmitry’s dark ones, and they looked as stunning as they ever had as they talked over each other.

“Oh, thank God—”

“—We heard some Parisian commissaires talking—”

“—said someone had been shot—”

“—news from Reims was bad, someone had been killed—”

There was nothing Gleb could do but laugh, shaking his head. It was pure instinct that led him to place one hand on the back of Dmitry’s neck, settling him before he pushed some artfully disheveled blonde curls behind Anya’s ear. 

“My beauty, my magpie, settle down,” he soothed, feeling Dmitry’s pulse jump under his hand as he took in the new nickname. Anya smiled shakily, and Gleb leaned down to kiss her forehead. She sighed, relieved, and leaned into him. 

“I’m okay,” he whispered, feeling Dmitry rest one hand on his knee as though needing reassurance that Gleb wasn’t a spirit. “I’m okay. Someone was shot at the commissariat, but it wasn’t me.”

“Who was it, then? They were saying it was a commissaire…”

“They’ll print in the news tomorrow that Gleb Varankin and Mikhail Antonov shot and killed each other today,” Gleb said gently. Dmitry frowned at the very idea, and Gleb resisted the urge to kiss it away.

“The truth is, only Mikhail was shot and killed,” he confessed, tucking some hair behind Dmitry’s ear before settling his hand over the one Dmitry had on his knee.

“And who shot him?” Dmitry demanded. Gleb smiled.

“Polina did,” Gleb replied, and had the distinct pleasure of watching both their faces light up. 

“Polina?” Anya breathed, “As in your sister, Polya? She’s here?”

“She and Ilyusha both,” Gleb confirmed with a grin, sitting back. Now that his focus was no longer on comforting Anya and Dmitry, he realized with an unpleasant jolt that the room was occupied. 

Standing there was not only the proudly smirking Countess Lily Malevskaya, but a stunned Vlad Popov, and a  _ very  _ disapproving Dowager Empress. 

_ This is Anya’s Nana _ , Gleb told himself, and then,  _ a cat may look at a king. A commissaire may look at a Dowager Empress. _

Anya followed his gaze and jumped to her feet. Dmitry got up at a more leisurely pace, and Gleb took a moment to appreciate the visual of the two of them in their opera finery before he stood as well. 

“Anastasia,” the old woman said, “Were you ever planning on introducing me to your…  _ friend? _ ”

“This is Gleb Vaganov, Nana,” Anya said with a nervous smile, taking Gleb’s hand. He squeezed it gently, intending to let go. Anya was having none of that, and instead squeezed his hand back. 

“He’s become our dear friend and in charge of keeping us safe in Reims,” Dmitry added, giving Gleb a soft look as he edged slightly closer to Gleb’s side.

“‘ _Dear friend_ ,’ so that’s what we’re calling it now,” Lily muttered under her breath to Vlad, who manfully suppressed a cough, turning red.

“I remember a Vaganov,” the dowager said coldly, “On the list of those who were present at the Ipatiev House on the night of the murder of my son and his wife, and Anastasia’s siblings. Dare I assume you are related, Mr. Vaganov?”

Gleb swallowed down a very inappropriate joke about being related to the Vaganovs who founded the ballet academy. Anya’s grip on his hand had grown nearly painfully tight, and he pressed a quick kiss to her hand before evenly meeting the dowager’s eyes.

“I am,” he said, and then smiled. An odd sense of peace settled over him.

Russia was behind him. Mikhail Petrovich was dead. He himself was ostensibly dead, and Polya and Ilyusha were most likely enjoying a second or third bottle of wine. No one was coming after him.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” he added, looked at Anya, and then, despite every instinct in his mind screaming bloody murder, bowed his head to the dowager. He hissed a breath out between clenched teeth.

Anya breathed an audible sigh of relief. Dmitry looked at his fianceé and shook his head, unable to quite hide his smile.

“And you expect to stand here, knowing what your father did to my family, and think I will welcome you into my home, Mr. Vaganov?” The dowager’s tone rivalled the iciness of a Siberian winter. 

“It’s Commissaire Vaganov, madame,” Gleb said evenly.  _ A cat may look at a king.  _ “And…”

He was his father’s son, there was no denying that. But he was his mother’s son as well, and Polya’s brother, and Ilyusha’s friend, and beloved of Dmitry and Anya.

“And I don’t think it is fair to hold me to the standard of a man who saved your granddaughter’s life and killed himself not even a year later,” he said evenly, “There are two sides to every story, and while I don’t expect you to forgive him, I was a child then. I had nothing to do with my father’s job.”

“I don’t expect you to welcome me here,” he continued, “But I am… devoted, shall we say, to Anastasia and Dmitry, and I needed them to know that I survived, and I needed them to know it is safe to return to Reims.”

“And why should I let my granddaughter return to Reims with the likes of  _ you? _ ”

“Because I love her,” Gleb said easily, laughing a little to himself. Maria Feodorovna had a grandson-in-law she liked. She didn’t need two. “And I love Dmitry too.”

Someone choked behind him. Gleb didn’t bother to check whether it was Anya or Dmitry. He loved both of them, as lovers and friends and after the day Gleb had, he couldn't be bothered to clarify which he meant. The dowager could think what she wanted. 

“And I was prepared to die for them today,” he continued, “If someone hadn’t taught Polina Arkadievna how to shoot during the Revolution, I’d be dead.”

Another choking noise. Gleb closed his eyes, realizing too late it was probably a bad idea to have let on that it was that close of a call.

“In any case,” he said, sighing deeply, “It’s safe to come back to Reims. If it’s alright, I’ll introduce you to Polya and Ilyusha in the morning, they—”

Gleb turned to bid Anya goodbye and halted as he saw that her large blue eyes were wet with tears. “Oh, Anyushka, don’t cry,” he tried, “Please. You’ll see me tomorrow.”

“You can’t  _ leave, _ ” Dmitry snapped, sliding an arm around Anya’s waist. He glared first at Gleb, but turned to the dowager, fixing her with a rather betrayed, hard stare. Gleb sighed.

“Are you not your father’s son?” the dowager asked. Her eyes were just as blue as Anya’s own. Gleb recognized the stubborn look and, in the way of those running on pure adrenaline, suppressed a laugh.

Russia was Sergey Vaganov. Russia was Fedya dying in his arms for the tsar, Russia was his father shooting himself out of shame, Russia was Yekaterinburg in winter and bodies being dragged out of Ipatiev House in the snow. Russia was Anya running away. 

His mother would have liked France. His mother would have liked Anya and Dmitry.

“My sister says I resemble my mother more,” Gleb said. It wasn’t a lie, but he wondered how much the dowager could read into his tone.

The dowager empress seemed unhappy, but resigned. Gleb wondered if he’d be able to read the old woman in time.

“You and your strays, Nastasya,” the dowager finally said, shook her head, and turned away. “Dinner. Tomorrow night. You will all stay until then, at the very least. And I’ll question your young man further then.”

“ _ Commisaire Vaganov,”  _ she muttered darkly as almost an aside to herself, shaking her head. The silence hung over the room until a door could be heard shutting from far down the hall. 

“All things considered,” Lily said, “That went far better than I ever could have expected.”

“Vaganov?” Vlad said faintly, “Not from Leningrad…?”

“The very same,” Gleb said dryly, “Terribly sorry about storming the Yusupov Theatre. It was all in the name of business, you see.”

“...I need a drink,” Vlad muttered, and followed the dowager’s example by leaving.

“Don’t defile the sofa, children,” Lily drawled, and followed Vlad out. Her laughter echoed down the hall. As Gleb stared at the door, Anya moved to fold herself into his arms. Gleb took a long moment to rest his chin atop her head, closing his eyes and breathing in the faint scent of perfume and pomade.

“Come on, you two,” Dmitry grumbled, but Gleb could hear the smile in his voice, “Let’s go to Anya’s room. That’s the best place to talk.”

“Wait a moment,” Anya murmured, and pulled back. Gleb looked down at her, curious, and could only smile when she pressed up to kiss him. He kissed her back gratefully, feeling the stress of the day practically evaporate. 

“Oh,” he murmured, “Yes, that was worth waiting for.”

* * *

Anya’s room was, in a word, childish, Gleb thought. The bedroom was covered in frills and lace, and was decorated in mostly whites and pale blues. It gave Gleb pause as he remembered the bedroom she and Dmitry shared and the way it was decorated. Surely that wasn’t only Dmitry’s taste dictating the bedroom furnishings?

“Nana had this decorated for me as soon as the rumors of my survival reached Paris,” Anya explained in answer to Gleb’s unspoken question, “She was always expecting that little girl to return. Not me.”

That seemed painfully sad, Gleb thought, but he realized with a pang that he couldn’t imagine his mother or father aged to match Pierre and Sephoré Herschel.

“She hasn’t gotten around to changing it because sooner or later we’re going to move into my room,” Dmitry said easily, “Guess this will become your room.”

“Joke’s on you,” Gleb snorted, “I’ll take your room and you’ll get the frills.”

Dmitry laughed, but it died away far more quickly than any of the room’s inhabitants would have liked.

“Gleb,” he said softly, stepping close and placing a hand at the small of his back, “You look exhausted. Sit. Talk to us. What have we missed?”

Gleb sat heavily on the chaise across from Anya’s bed and bent to unlace his shoes. “It’s been a long few days,” he said, slowly launching into the story as Dmitry helped him out of his uniform waistcoat. Anya sat at her vanity, listening carefully as she began taking off her jewelry and opera gloves and finally began changing into a nightdress as he finished his tale. Gleb looked away, continuing to speak even as Anya giggled over the rustle of fabric.

“It’s nothing you won’t see in the future, my dear commissioner,” she teased, and Gleb nearly choked. 

“Unless you don’t  _ want _ to share our bed?” Dmitry teased, leaning close enough to nudge Gleb’s cheek. Gleb closed his eyes, ducking his head with a breathless laugh. 

“I do, I just… don’t necessarily know where I fit,” he said, opening his eyes to look at Dmitry and Anya in turn. Anya reached up, about to unpin her hair, and Gleb sprung up from his place on the chaise. Dmitry consequently lost his balance and flopped onto the chaise where Gleb sat, and Anya burst out laughing. 

“What’s all this?” she teased.

“I…” Gleb began, swallowing hard. “My father always used to unpin my mother’s hair. And brush it out. They’d talk about their day while they did it. It was this whole… ritual, I guess. I used to do it for Polya when we were children, and then later in Leningrad, when it was just us… I did it for her today, but she says Ilya does it for her now. They’re… they’re to be married, Anya.”

Anya looked gutted. Gleb took a deep breath, looking at the disheveled Dmitry still in his tuxedo before looking back to Anya.

“I know I’ll never marry you,” he said quietly, “But you’re the closest thing I will ever have to a wife. It would mean a… a terrible lot to me, if you would let me do it for you too.”

The gutted expression on Anya’s face didn’t quite fade, but it changed into something both bitter and sweet before she smiled.    


“Yes,” she said softly, “Yes, of course you can. Go ahead.”

Slowly, she turned around at the vanity, and grasped for her brush. Gleb watched her hand tremble. 

“Dima,” Gleb said, turning back for a moment and watching as the other man sat up on the chaise. “You must know…” 

Dmitry’s expression turned wry and he smiled, looking at the floor for a moment before meeting Gleb’s eyes. “We could never be married,” he said, sounding faintly sad under his amused tone, “The best we’d ever get would be our own little flat in Petersburg or Moscow. A house in Novgorod, or by the Baltic. Vilna was good for that, once upon a time. Or Berlin.”

“We’re in agreement, then?” Anya said, turning back to look at Dmitry then looking up at Gleb. “This is it for us. We’re getting married. All three of us, even unofficially.”

“Yes,” Dmitry said firmly, “All three of us. It’s about love and trust and respect, and I think we have that in spades.”

“And you keep us from killing each other,” Anya said quietly as she leaned back against Gleb’s solid form, “Dima and I… we argue. You’re the peacemaker. You always know how to calm us down without taking sides.”

“We don’t… work, without you,” Dmitry admitted, licking his lips, “And this isn’t to say that we won’t fight, but—”

“But we’ll be able to work it out,” Gleb said firmly, feeling vaguely lightheaded.

“So it’s settled,” Anya laughed, “We’re getting married.”

Was this how it felt to get what you want at last?  _ You’re going to break your own heart, Gleb’ka, _ Polina had said once. Gleb shut his eyes and smiled.  _No, I'm not,_ he said to the Polina in his head,  _I'm really, really not._

“Yes,” he said, opening his eyes again. The Gleb Vaganov reflected in Anya’s mirror was older than the one he left in Polina’s vanity in Leningrad. More tired. In fact, this Gleb Vaganov looked exhausted. Yet in the moonlight pouring in from the window, he looked radiantly happy.

“But, my darlings?” he said, a note of teasing in his voice.

Anya and Dmitry focused on him and Gleb wanted to lean into that quiet, weighted silence for the rest of his life before his smile widened into a grin.

“That’s the worst proposal I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh, like you’ve done better?” Dmitry burst into laughter, “Polya turned you down!”

“You two are already getting married! I can’t ask!” Gleb snorted.

“I have to do  _ everything _ in this household if I want to get something done, I guess,” Anya groused, and giggled as she swept out of the vanity in a nightgown and sheer peignoir. She brushed the fabric behind her and sank to one knee, balancing herself as gracefully as she could. She took Gleb’s hand in both of her own, grinning mischievously up at him.

“Gleb Vaganov,” she intoned, “Will you make Dmitry and I the happiest couple in existence and unofficially marry us? I’ll make sure we have rings and everything.”

“At least Dmitry was prepared with your ring,” Gleb grumbled, but his cheeks hurt from smiling as he nodded. “Yes! Yes, how could I say no?”

Anya beamed, letting Gleb pull her up and sweep her around in a swirl of white-sheer fabric and blue ribbon. Gleb gave her a long kiss before letting her go, beaming back at her.

“Don’t I get a turn?” Dmitry huffed, grabbed Gleb, and did his best to swing him around in a clumsy manner that resulted in the both of them tumbling to the ground. 

“I’ll kiss you too, don’t you fret, my thief,” Gleb laughed, and pulled Dmitry in for a kiss as well. When he pulled back, his hand still twined in Dmitry’s short hair, he looked up at Anya. She was practically glowing with happiness, and Gleb noted with distinct pleasure that her hair was still up.

“Now come,” he said sweetly, “Sit back down. I’ll brush your hair out and then I think we all need to get some rest.”

“I plan on sleeping in,” Dmitry murmured, resting his chin on Gleb’s shoulder and speaking so low that his breath moved Gleb’s dark curls.

“None of that,” Gleb chided, kissing his jaw before standing and starting on Anya’s pins. In the mirror, he could see Dmitry still sitting and grinning at the pair they made. 

“And why not?” Anya said primly, “You’ve earned it.”

“We’ve got breakfast with Polya and Ilya tomorrow morning,” Gleb said briskly, watching Anya laugh in the mirror, “And for that? We need all the sleep we can get.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: a short epilogue. Because I know all of you want to see Polya meet Anya, and frankly, at this point, I'm kind of excited to deliver on that promise. Also, there are a few loose ends I still want to wrap up, but this chapter clocked in at 5.7K words and I uh... didn't want to make it longer. 
> 
> Thank you all, as always, for sticking with me! I am eternally grateful for your support and your kind messages and the way you love these morons just as much as I do.


End file.
